


Mr. Eames and the Boy Wonder

by saltandbyrne



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: BDSM, Consent Play, Cosplay, Dom Eames (Inception), Fisting, Kink Exploration, Leather, M/M, Past Arthur/Nash, Rope Bondage, Slow Burn, Sub Arthur (Inception)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:55:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 85,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23582698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandbyrne/pseuds/saltandbyrne
Summary: “Arthur, we’re both grown men who like dressing up in masks and leather.  You mustn’t be so serious about everything.”Or: Cosplayer, Leather Daddy Overcome Subcultural Differences to Find Love.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 345
Kudos: 347





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have so many people to thank for this. Leslie, for indulging me over the longest dinner ever as I hashed out this story. Slutstiels, for being the best alpha cheerleader a girl could ask for. FaeGentry, for the most meticulous and joyful of beta-reads. For the 18+dogs crew, for letting me finally watch this movie over the summer, and watching me lose my shit over these two ever since. To everyone who encouraged me and cheered me on, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

He should have worn gloves. 

The wind whips off the East River and finds its way under the collar of Arthur’s peacoat. He turns it up, letting the black wool graze his cheek. Shivering, he steps further into the shallow doorway, not finding much cover from the cold.

“Fuck,” he mutters, blowing into his cupped hands to try and force some warmth into them. He has nice leather gloves at home, cashmere-lined with neat rows of pinholes that stretch across his knuckles. Those would have been just the thing for an appointment like this.

October isn’t usually this cold, but Arthur’s not usually this close to the river. It had been a long ride on the G train, after what felt like a dozen connections from his apartment in Midtown. Arthur’s gone to a few parties in Williamsburg, and Ariadne had dragged him to a Warpaint show at McCarren over the summer, but he’s never been this deep into the neighborhood before. 

He’s certainly at the right place. Next to a time-worn buzzer is a neat sign, carefully slotted into the bent metal of the three-apartment building directory.

**Mr. Eames**

**Bespoke Leather Goods**

Arthur is punctual. He’s not so arrogant to assume that his time is worth more than other people’s, and he’s conscientious to a fault when it comes to his schedule. He’d estimated his travel time at fifty minutes, given himself a full hour to be safe, and through the sheer mercurial luck of the MTA, had arrived fifteen minutes early. 

For someone about to pay good money for superhero costume accessories, Arthur is deeply worried that he’ll seem uncool.

He checks his phone for the third time, shifting in his Chelsea boots as he scrolls through his Instagram feed. It’s the usual mix of cosplayers, comic book artists, nerd news, gay geekery, and a few self-indulgent thirst accounts he can’t bring himself to unfollow. He smiles as he scrolls past a picture of Ariadne looking like her usual furiously tiny self in her Animated Series Batgirl at ACE Chicago. She’ll love the caption: “@websbian proving that we’d all go gay for Batgirl.” Arthur double-taps.

Ten minutes early isn’t too desperate. It’s prompt. It’s efficient. Arthur rolls his shoulders back and presses the buzzer, chalking his nerves up to the cold. He’s the paying customer here.

_“Yes?”_

“Uh, it’s Arthur Levine? I have an appointment at 2:00?”

_“Brilliant, come on up!”_

The door vibrates to life with a buzzer that would make a believable sound effect for an electric chair. Arthur pulls it open and makes his way up a flight of wide, shallow stairs. All these buildings used to be warehouses, but most of them have been converted to industrial loft space for gentrifying hipsters and their overpriced coffee. Mr. Eames’s building seems to have missed the memo, with peeling paint curling off the original fixtures and a worn-smooth railing that surely held hands with the original steel merchant who built it. 

Arthur turns at the top of the stairs, pivoting with his hand over the banister. The door to his left has a sign tacked to it, black with _Mr. Eames_ spelled out across it, and the letters gleam as Arthur approaches it. He runs his hand over it and smiles. It’s stamped leather, with gold foil filling the curved runnels.

Arthur’s hand is still raised in mid-air when the door opens. 

“You’re early,” says a voice that Arthur could spoon into his coffee.

Let it never be said that Arthur doesn’t do his research. When he’d decided to go full Method for this costume, he’d looked up the best leather worker in the city. There are countless posts on social media and no few members-only sites Arthur had smurfed his way into, all of them singing the praises of Mr. Eames’s work. He’d seen picture after picture of exquisite leatherwork, adorning men and women at every fetish ball and BDSM club across the globe. Finding Mr. Eames’s _work_ was easy. Finding the man himself had proved nearly impossible.

Arthur admires the dedication it takes to keep oneself a ghost these days. He’d dug for hours and come up largely empty-handed, aside from a few worthless, blurry party photos that were clearly taken illicitly. His anonymity is even more impressive given his apparent stature as a dom in the leather scene. There are entire forum threads about his rope bondage and dozens of sulking testimonials from men who’ve had their hopes of subbing for him snubbed. Arthur had cut himself off after he’d scrolled too far down a post about nipple torture. That road always led to watching weird porn that made him want to take a hot shower afterwards.

Still, the mystery of Mr. Eames had kept him thinking. Arthur had conjured up an entire Village People of identities for him, from a gray-haired bear with a potbelly all the way to someone in assless chaps and a gimp mask. Anyone who’s into this kind of stuff had to be a little sleazy.

Nothing had prepared him for how fucking hot this guy is. Arthur swallows.

“I do like a boy who minds his manners,” Eames adds, the hazel in his eyes glinting as he stares down at his visitor. He’s only got an inch or so on Arthur, but he wields it easily, leaning one muscled shoulder against the doorframe and taking in every inch of Arthur. Tattoos just trashy enough to make Arthur curious snake up to disappear beneath his t-shirt sleeves. There’s something tribal that should be express-mailed back to the nineties, and a Virgin Mary that looks like a Modigliani drawn from memory. The way he licks his lips is just cheating.

“The transit gods were on my side,” Arthur shrugs, using it to straighten himself up and meet the man’s eyes. “Mr. Eames, I presume?”

“Punctual _and_ presumptuous, this must be my lucky day. And just ‘Eames’ will do, no need for titles yet.” He pushes off the door frame, giving Arthur an excellent impression of the heavy musculature of his chest underneath his glaring pink X-Ray Spex shirt. “Come in, then.”

Arthur’s apartment is rent-controlled and near two subway lines, but it’s still a tiny studio. The first thing he _should_ notice about Eames’s place is the sheer size of it, with soaring ceilings and massive windows and worktables so large they could hold the entirety of Arthur’s furniture. He should notice the bondage furniture and suspension rigs and multiple winches hanging from the ceiling, at least. All Arthur’s brain can handle as he walks into Eames’s loft is the overwhelming, intoxicating smell of leather.

Leather isn’t practical for a lot of cosplay. It’s expensive, finicky, delicate and hard to work with all at once, and hell on home sewing machines. Arthur knows that he can get a better fit with good bonded neoprene or a heavy spandex blend, and that there are pleathers so good only the closest scrutiny would betray them. He also knows that nothing on earth can compare to genuine leather.

“Cup of tea?” Eames asks, charming and English and perfectly at odds with the wrought-iron frame of what Arthur can safely assume is _not_ a coat rack behind him. 

“Uh, no, thanks? Some water?” Arthur can’t help but stare as Eames walks away. His broad back stretches the soft cotton of his shirt, tapering down to a trim waist. A thick belt holds up a pair of jeans that look like they’d stand up and keep walking on their own if Eames took them off, all while holding the perfect thickness of his thighs in their tender memory. 

Arthur hangs his peacoat on the _actual_ coat rack by the door, its matte wool standing out like a stray dog among the sleek black of Eames’s impressive array of leather jackets. He’s underdressed in a black t-shirt and slim jeans, but his usual workday suits had felt too formal for a place like this. Arthur rubs a hand over his bare arm.

“Now, Arthur,” Eames says, handing him a pint glass of ice water before wrapping his hands around a chipped mug of what Arthur presumes is tea. It smells warm and spicy. “Whatever brings you here?”

Eames purses his lips over the rim of his mug, daring Arthur to stare while he does the same. It’s not that Arthur isn’t used to attention. He’s been cosplaying since he was a teenager, mostly as a character known for wearing his underoos on the outside or a skintight catsuit. He’s regularly half-naked in front of thousands of people, including judges whose job it is to pick apart every inch of him. He has never wanted to squirm the way he does as Eames looks him up and down, lingering on the trim cut of Arthur’s waist before leaning against the butcher-block counter of his kitchen.

“A harness,” Arthur says, letting the chill of the ice water seep through his glass and steady his voice. “Like the picture I sent you.”

Arthur had sent Eames the illustration in his inquiry email, along with his measurements, a timeline for production, and some requests for the specific weight and texture he was looking for. Specifics beget good work.

“Ah, yes, yes, that picture.” Eames holds up a finger and beckons Arthur to follow him to one of the laden work surfaces by the windows. Like the unexpectedly-pleasant sight of Eames himself or the all-encompassing smell of leather that fills the air, Eames’s gleefully haphazard workspace is almost too much for Arthur to take in. 

Rolling racks criss-cross the floor at odd angles, packed with hanging patterns on heavy brown paper and a small militia’s worth of leather straps, D-rings, and O-rings. Dress forms that look like they kept company with the Brontë sisters hold court over a trio of male mannequins with atrocious 80s hairstyles. Heavy rivet machines and an industrial old-school Singer sewing machine that makes Arthur weak in the knees with envy are cheek-to-jowl with a taxidermied peacock and a disturbingly cheerful statue of Mickey Mouse with a ball gag in his mouth. 

Eames’s art collection is as chaotic as it is impressive, with no delineation between display and what must be some of Eames’s projects. The upper half of the open kitchen is decorated with mounted luchador masks, a metallic rainbow against the cracked white of the loft’s walls. Near an overstuffed sectional, a hexagon of welded metal hangs from chains bolted to the ceiling, its cross struts dotted with eye bolts. A huge print of Debbie Harry is half-blacked out on the bottom, where stripes of paint seep down with the tell-tale halo of an airbrush. Arthur has used Ariadne’s enough times to recognize the spatter, which is why they only use it outside on the small back patio of her house in Bed-Stuy. Eames clearly has no such compunction about making a mess. For all that it’s exuberantly disorganized, Eames’s place seems very clean. The hardwood floors are ancient but they gleam underfoot nonetheless, and Arthur can’t see a speck of dust anywhere. 

“Here it is!” Eames exclaims, smiling as he pulls a sheet of paper from one of the many teeming piles. 

“Arthur, I must tell you...” Eames leans in, his eyebrows drawing together as he taps his finger over the illustration. “This is very, very gay.”

Arthur barks a laugh at that. “Yeah, that’s the point.”

The picture _is_ , to be fair, very, very gay. It’s a black-and-white illustration Arthur had purchased at an Artist’s Alley at a Con in Seattle. The shorthand description he’d given Javier when he’d proposed they cosplay it together was “Tom of Finland does Batman and Robin.” Batman stands with his chest puffed out and one booted foot resting on a crate, his chest straining at the belted leather motorcycle jacket that nips in his waist. Skin-tight pants leave nothing to the imagination, with even the slimmed-down line of his utility belt slung low across his hips doing nothing to hide his bulge. The nods to the Batman iconography are subtle. His black motorcycle boots have bat-shaped spurs just visible where one leg is angled, and the sides of his leather-daddy motorcycle hat point into subtle ears. Batman’s arm is draped possessively over his Robin, tugging him in to lean his wiry frame against Batman’s side. 

Robin has the same motorcycle boots, which is pretty much the only thing covering his legs as they slink up into a pair of truly tiny denim shorts. They’re cut so low his modest happy trail is clearly visible, especially with Robin’s gloved hand slung into the waistband. A cropped leather jacket is tabbed at the front in a cute reference to the original Boy Wonder costume, although it’s hanging open to reveal his bare chest. Well, almost bare. A heavy leather harness crisscrosses his chest, giving a peek of glinting metal rings. The traditional domino mask covers his eyes, and even under the raccoon makeup they spell trouble.

It’s the sort of costume that would make anyone stand up and take notice of him. It’s the sort of thing Nash would have loved.

“I can make most of it myself, but I don’t have the equipment to make a harness like this.” 

That’s not entirely true. Arthur could find a friend-of-a-friend with an industrial rivet machine if he had to. Arthur usually makes as many of his own pieces as possible. That’s part of his philosophy on cosplay, that it’s all about the work that goes into every stitch, the love and sweat and occasional blood that goes into his costumes. But this one needs to be perfect. 

Arthur traces his finger over the picture of Robin. “Can you make me one?”

“Certainly.” Eames tilts his head at Arthur, glancing back and forth between the picture and Arthur’s face. “But only if you tell me where you’re going in a get-up like that.”

“Oh. I’m a cosplayer.” Arthur had thought that part was obvious. He takes a sip of his water, tensing for whatever comment Eames might have about it. Despite the exponential growth in popularity, plenty of people still feel the need to tease him for spending his free time dressing up like a superhero. A guy like Eames is probably too busy hosting orgies to pay much attention to pop culture. 

“Cosplay, fascinating.” Eames’s accent does marvelously sibilant things to the words. “I’ve always said half these superhero costumes look like bondage gear, don’t you think?”

“Sometimes,” Arthur says, his guard still up. 

“Is this from a comic book?”

“No. Well, the characters are, obviously, but this is just some fan art. I thought it’d be a fun look for this convention.”

“Do you always dress as, who’s this, Robin?”

“Nightwing, mostly, but I do a lot of Robin, too,” Arthur says. 

Eames gives him a blank look.

“Nightwing is the character Robin becomes, when Dick Grayson stops being Batman’s sidekick.”

“Oh, that’s right, his name is Dick, how could I have forgotten that?” Eames’s voice is delighted. “So, Dick’s your favorite then, eh?” 

Arthur gives him a level look. He shouldn’t expect better from a guy like Eames, who’s probably used to every client who walks through his door throwing themselves at him. Not that Arthur could blame them. Eames frowns, and Arthur has to force his eyes away from Eames’s lips.

“Arthur, we’re both grown men who like dressing up in masks and leather. You mustn’t be so serious about everything.”

Eames tears a slice off the roll of brown craft paper and grabs a stubby pencil from one of the many overflowing mugs corralling writing implements and sharp objects. He sketches two views of a male torso, front and back, and Arthur reddens slightly at the likeness to his own tiny waist and what Ariadne calls his “Dorito shoulders”. Eames slashes in the cuts of Arthur’s obliques and hip bones with an easy swipe of his pencil, and dots in the divots just above Arthur’s ass. There’s no way Eames could know he has those just by looking at him. Lucky guess.

With his copy of the fan art illustration framed in his hand, Eames sketches the front of the harness—seven O-rings linked together with thick, curved leather bands, giving the faintest outline of the Bat insignia. Eames has a fighter’s hands, Arthur always notices these things, but he’s delicate with his pencil as he taps it against the empty back-view.

“I’ve no idea what the back looks like, but we’ll need at least one anchor point. How rough are you going to get with this, then?”

“Excuse me?”

“Will your boyfriend be hauling you around all evening, or is this just for you to prance around and look pretty?”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” Arthur cringes at himself. That’s hardly the most salient point of Eames’s statement. Still, it’s not fair to Javier’s husband. Arthur had been the best man at their wedding. Eames just arches an eyebrow.

“Prancing it is,” he says, shading in the detail of Arthur’s back. 

“It’s just for show, if that’s… I’m not into any of this… _stuff_.”

“And what _stuff_ is that, Arthur?” Eames can pull off guileless far too well for Arthur’s composure. Eames is terribly handsome with his eyes demurely wide and his lips pursed in wait.

“Bondage stuff, kink, I don’t know? There’s nothing wrong with it, it’s just… not my thing.”

It’s not. Sure, the look of it is cool. Arthur loves all the old Tom of Finland art, and it’s not like he hasn’t tried some stuff. He’s tried _plenty_ of stuff, hasn’t he? And thought about a lot more. He glances up at the metal framework hanging from Eames’s ceiling. It could be a piece of sculpture, or it could be some obscure piece of bondage furniture Arthur’s never heard of. He rubs the back of his neck.

“I see,” Eames says softly as he places his pencil next to his sketches. He grabs a measuring tape and slings it around the back of his neck. “I know you sent measurements, but I like to check them myself.”

He guides Arthur to stand up straight and brings his arms out to the sides. He drapes the measuring tape over Arthur’s shoulders, across his back, jotting down each measurement next to the sketches. Eames drops Arthur’s arms to his sides, and slides the tape upwards from his waist, wrapping it around the broadest part of Arthur’s chest. His hands are warm, heat bleeding through Arthur’s t-shirt. 

The grommeted metal tab at the end of the tape digs into Arthur’s chest as Eames presses it into the hollow of his sternum. Arthur’s bare arms can’t hide the goosebumps that dance up his skin.

“I’ll make you something very beautiful, Arthur.” The measuring tape whips around, metal tab snapping against the insides of his biceps as Eames pulls it back. 

“I’ve two ideas for the back. You’ll need to try some things on for me.”

“Ok,” Arthur says, his heart beating against the echo of Eames’s touch. Arthur’s been single for too long, if all it takes to get him antsy in his skin is some attention from a low-life like Eames. A handsome, charming low-life, no doubt, with big hands and that fucking mouth, but a low-life all the same. Arthur straightens up and slips his hands into his pockets.

Eames lets the measuring tape slither into a puddle on the work table before pulling out a rack of harnesses. He flips through them, shaking his head until he pulls out three models.

“I’m shipping these to a store in New Orleans tomorrow. Tell me which style you like best.” One of the harnesses dangles from Eames’s index finger as he raises an expectant eyebrow at Arthur. Arthur raises his arms, not exactly sure what stance he’s supposed to assume for Eames to be-harness him. 

“Take off your shirt,” Eames says patiently, like he’s talking to a skittish child. 

Arthur freezes, aware suddenly of the flush spreading over his skin. Eames slides one of the buckles free. “If you’re going to wear it against your skin, I’d like you to see how it looks. And feels.”

Arthur nods at Eames’s perfectly sensible suggestion. He slips his t-shirt over his head and folds it before placing in on the lone bare spot on Eames’s table.

Arthur’s used to scrutiny, shirtless or not. He’s proud of his body, the result of years of working out and Krav Maga and his latest venture into aerial yoga classes. The hungry look Eames gives him is different from the usual assessing stares of cosplay judges and fitness instructors. Arthur ignores the urge to chew his lip and fidget, instead looking at Eames and standing stock still.

“This one’s fairly simple.” Eames slips the first harness over Arthur’s shoulders. The hardware is cold against his skin and Arthur shivers.

“Don’t worry, love, it warms up quickly.”

Arthur’s skin is a riot of goosebumps as Eames buckles him in, working each piece with practiced ease. Of course, Eames must do this sort of thing all the time. To all sorts of men. 

“Take a look,” Eames says, turning him to the full-length mirror next to more racks of pattern pieces. Arthur nods again, taking in the simple strap that crosses over his chest and turning to see the matching pattern on the back. “Give me your phone, I’ll take a picture of the back.”

Arthur unlocks his phone and hands it to Eames. He stands up straight as Eames snaps a picture of him. Arthur’s been to his share of fittings before, and he’s no stranger to the pleasant head-scratch sensation of having someone dress him and fuss over him like this. Eames’s hands on him are more than pleasant. They’re confident, easy in their manipulation of Arthur’s body as he unbuckles Arthur out of the first harness. His touch is professional for all that it lingers on Arthur’s skin after he pulls away.

“Too plain,” Eames tuts, tilting his head at Arthur. Plain, like Arthur isn’t dizzy at the sight of the black straps criss-crossing his chest. Arthur remembers how to blink as Eames frees him from the remaining straps.

“I think this one will suit you nicely.” Eames holds up a second harness, with thicker straps and more attachment points than the first. The back sections form an inverted pyramid, with one horizontal strap running across his back and two that rise up diagonally to his shoulders.

“The simple ones sell better, but I’ve always liked a bit more ornamentation.” His fingers fly over the buckles, tugging and threading the straps until the leather presses into Arthur’s skin. Eames whirls him around again until he’s facing the mirror, with Eames at his back to buckle the final strap. He cinches it slowly, dragging the leather across Arthur’s skin as they both watch in the mirror.

“These are for mass market, so I’ve made them more adjustable.” The strap tightens, squeezing over Arthur’s pecs. Arthur inhales through his nose.

“Yours will fit like a glove.”

There’s a soft click as Eames takes another picture before setting Arthur’s phone aside. Eames hums and slides a finger along one of the straps running down the slope of his shoulder blade to his armpit. Arthur’s eyes slide closed.

“Should any of your non-boyfriends be fortunate enough to get ahold of you, these are excellent contact points to bring you closer,” Eames demonstrates, wrapping his hands around the straps and tugging Arthur flush against him, “or push you away.” He slides one hand into the horizontal strap across Arthur’s back and pushes, just a suggestion of how he could hold Arthur like this and bend him over at the waist, take him just like this. Arthur’s just met this man, just tramped over an alphabet soup of subway lines to find his out-of-the-way hipster loft. Does he do this to all of his clients, or is Arthur just special? 

In the mirror, Arthur’s lips are parted, his hands limp at his sides. He’s not afraid, not in any way he recognizes. He could sweep Eames’s feet out from under him in a single second flat, but all he wants to do is melt into Eames’s hands. It’s strange, to feel so calm when he should be sizing up the nearest improvisable weapon. Arthur’s breath is shaky as he exhales.

Eames draws Arthur back against his chest, thick and warm at Arthur’s back as he smiles at Arthur in the mirror. Arthur’s hair is perfect but his face is a wreck, eyes wide and glinting darkly over the tell-tale flush running from his nipples to the apples of his cheeks. God, he’s getting hard.

“But that’s not your sort of thing, forgive me.” Eames stares pointedly at Arthur’s crotch. In the open air of Eames’s loft, Arthur’s skin prickles, flushed and hot everywhere Eames is touching him. The leather digs into his skin like a brand, tight against him, the tough material giving way to the cool hardware that must be leaving indents in his flesh. The thought of Eames marking him makes him sway on his feet, light-headed at the possibility of Eames leaving an impression that Arthur can bear like a secret beneath his clothes. His hands float back, fingertips just grazing the rough seam of Eames’s jeans when the door slams open.

_“Honey!”_

Arthur jumps out of Eames’s hands like he’s been scalded, and Eames mutters a soft but emphatic “ _Fuck—_ ” under his breath.

_“Tell me you have honey.”_

If Arthur wasn’t warring between embarrassment and the half-hard ache of his cock in his pants, he’d say the man who just paraded into Eames’s loft had a friendly face. Under a mass of black curls and a barely-tamed beard, he glances over his shoulder at Eames and stops when he sees Arthur scrambling to unbuckle the harness.

“Oh, _hi!_ Didn’t mean to interrupt.” The man waggles his fingers, smiling broadly. Over his potbelly, a stretched-out t-shirt reads ‘ _Girls are scary, tie them up_.’

“I wasn’t, you weren’t—” Arthur stammers, fumbling with a buckle before just tugging the damned thing over his head. It had seemed so easy when Eames was putting it on. He probably looks like an idiot, especially in front of Eames’s boyfriend or sub or lover or whatever sort of partner-situations a man like Eames has. Arthur pulls his shirt on and tries to steady his breath.

“Yusuf, I know this concept means nothing to you, but some of us have to conduct business during the day,” Eames says, voice clipped through his teeth.

“I have half a stake in your business, Eames, and it’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” Yusuf says, digging through Eames’s kitchen cabinets and leaving half the contents out on the counter. Are they married? He’s humming as he rummages through Eames’s kitchen, seemingly unperturbed by walking in on Eames about to get groped by a half-naked stranger. God, he must watch Eames undress other men constantly. Arthur gauges the distance between himself and the door and decides he has just enough time to run.

“Yusuf is my landlord,” Eames says evenly, clearing his throat and stepping in between Arthur and his avenue of escape. 

“Thought I was your best mate.” Yusuf makes a noise of triumph as he pulls a jar of honey from Eames’s upper shelf.

“That’s up for debate at the moment,” Eames grouses darkly.

“Terribly sorry, I’m out of your hair, I promise,” Yusuf says, smiling with satisfaction and waving the jar of honey like he’s bestowing bee-borne blessings upon them all. He sails back out the door of the loft, leaving Arthur smoothing down his shirt and wondering what the fuck just happened. At least he’s not hard anymore.

“I’m sorry about Yusuf, he’s sort of… feral.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s just a fitting, right?”

“Right.” Eames runs a hand through his hair, slicking it back into place. “Did you like the design on the second one? You should look at the pictures.”

Arthur nods and grabs his phone off Eames’s counter. He swipes through the pictures, barely looking at them. His head is buzzing. 

“Yeah, no, the second one was good,” Arthur says, attempting to detach himself from the phantom burn of Eames’s leather straps against his skin. He shoves his phone in his pocket and nods.

“Brilliant.” Eames sketches out the design onto the blank Arthur-torso, front and back, a neat triangle of O-rings and straps. Arthur watches as he sketches in the wings of Arthur’s shoulder blades and the dip of his spine, with quick hash-lines hinting at Arthur’s muscles. 

Arthur nods mutely as Eames offers suggestions for the leather and hardware he thinks would work best. Arthur leaves a deposit in cash and signs off on the design. Eames doesn’t give him a formal invoice, just has Arthur print his name and phone number on his sketch. It’s information Eames should already have. Eames probably has eight other Arthurs saved on his phone, a dozen Johns, a basketful of Michaels. 

“How long will this take?” Arthur asks, forcing a briskness he doesn’t feel into his voice. He takes one last look at the sketch.

“Should take me about two weeks. You’ll need to come back for a final fitting,” Eames says. He’s staring when Arthur looks up, catching his eye and holding him there. That strange stillness settles over Arthur again, creeping out from his gut. Eames has a notch in his eyebrow, probably a vestige from some schoolyard brawl or mosh-pit misadventure. He has a face Arthur could study for hours.

“Of course,” Arthur nods, looking away. Brooklyn alone is probably teeming with men who could write graduate theses on Eames’s good looks. 

“I’m looking forward to working with you, Arthur.” Eames smiles, stretching his arms over his head. His t-shirt rides up, the flaming pink fabric offsetting the fine trail of hair that disappears behind his belt buckle. Arthur doesn’t let himself stare for more than a second.

“Thanks.” Arthur retrieves his coat from the rack. The weight of the wool against his skin settles him as Eames follows him to the door. “It’ll be a nice costume.”

~

As the G train rattles north, Arthur shifts in his seat and presses his hand under his jacket. There, a handspan below the dip of his clavicle, he can still feel the heady indent of Eames’s straps against his skin. He presses, glad for the fairly deserted train car.

His phone is a decent distraction for some of the ride. He scrolls through a burst of messages from Ariadne, all links to a new photo set from some Keane-eyed Catwoman cosplayer she’s obsessed with. He writes back to agree that yes, she does have big top energy and no, Ariadne should not ask for her hand in marriage via DM. The train lurches forward into the night as Arthur finds himself kneading his fingertips against his chest every few minutes. 

Arthur taps on the photo app icon, making sure that no one is close enough to see. He has the bench seat to himself. He swipes to the first picture Eames had taken, of Arthur in the plain harness. His back takes up most of the image, although he can see the mirror in front of him. There’s a sliver of Eames’s body visible. Arthur scrolls through two more of the plain style before he gets to the last one.

Arthur is facing the mirror as before, but Eames has changed the angle of the shot. They’re both fully visible in the image, Arthur’s back in the foreground, with Eames and Arthur reflected in the mirror in the background. The more elaborate design looks good crossed over Arthur’s back. Arthur doesn’t linger on it for long, though. Reflected in the mirror, Arthur’s head hangs to the side, like he’s about to look back at Eames. His lips are parted and his eyes are half-closed. He looks buzzed, his cheeks flushed and his hands curled at his sides. Situated just behind him is Eames, Arthur’s phone in one hand as he takes the picture. His face is alight, full lips curled into what Arthur can only call a smirk, a single eyebrow raised sardonically as he tilts to look at Arthur. His free hand rests over his crotch, clearly cupping the outline of his cock as he snaps the picture. 

Arthur locks the phone and shoves it back into his pocket, glancing nervously around him out of the corner of his eye. He lets the steady hum of the train carry him home.

~

Arthur knows he’s in trouble when he starts seeing Eames everywhere. A crooked set of teeth on the new barista at La Colombe, a faded tribal tattoo on a guy at his Krav Maga studio, a Clash poster lurking behind the tiered liquor bottles at one of Ariadne’s favorite dive bars. 

“So yeah, that’s the last time I do a balayage before a baby shower,” Ariadne’s saying, jabbing a french fry in the air for emphasis. Arthur has been mostly-listening to her airing of grievances about life at the hair salon, a source of both drama and occasional injury with hot objects. At least it’s not wedding season. 

“I think I want to take more off the sides next time,” she adds, narrowing her eyes at Arthur. Friendship with Ariadne has many perks, and free haircuts at her apartment are high on the list. He runs his fingers along his temple, nodding. He’d been thinking the same thing.

“Come on, let's go watch,” Arthur says, crumpling his napkin and tossing it on his empty plate. He stares at the poster and sighs. He’s ready to go park his ass on Ariadne’s couch and distract himself with their weekly ritual of watching Cosplay Coda and gossiping about everyone. 

“I’m not done with my beer,” Ariadne protests. 

“Which you’ve been nursing all night.” Arthur narrows his eyes. Ariadne had picked at her food and taken at least twice her usual Human French-Fry Thresher time to eat her meal, and she’s spent longer with this beer than her last Con hookup. “You’re being weird, what’s up?”

“Nothing,” she insists, far too brightly before nose-diving into her beer. Arthur stares at her. Ariadne’s poker face couldn’t fool a five-year-old. 

“Fine.” She rolls her eyes and frowns. “One of the guests this week is… it’s fucking Nash.”

There was a time when hearing that would have set Arthur off. Now, his main reaction to hearing his ex-boyfriend's name is a wave of distaste. He sips the last foamy dregs of his draft Dogfish Head.

“What’s the segment on, making the same exact costume in nine different colorways?” Arthur licks the bitter taste of the IPA off his lips.

“Maybe it’s an exposé on cheating assholes, like one of those To-Catch-A-Predator shows,” Ariadne says, drinking her beer in earnest now.

Arthur snorts, imagining Chris Hansen springing out of the shadows as Nash does his stupid, loping Red Hood walk into the room, expecting whatever twink they’d used to lure him there and coming up with some fantastic, emotionally manipulative excuse for how he’s not actually cheating on his new boyfriend. Arthur doesn't even know if Nash _has_ a new boyfriend, _that’s_ how few fucks Arthur gives about him.

“We don’t have to watch it. You know I’ve been itching for an Outsiders rewatch.” Ariadne burps delicately behind her hand. “Twunk Superboy always cheers you up.”

Ariadne knows him well. Arthur smiles. “Fuck him, let’s watch it. I’ll eat one of your couch cushions if he actually comes up with an original outfit. And it’ll make me feel better about leaving him.”

For all that it had been eight months since Arthur had really, truly, we-are-never-ever-ever-etc. left Nash, after the dozen or so failed attempts that had preceded it, it still feels strange to think of Nash so distantly. There’d been a time when those big, brown eyes and long, lean legs could have talked Arthur into anything.

Ariadne sets her empty bottle down with a loud thump. “I’m glad you’ve moved onto the ‘being the bigger person’ segment of this breakup, but I still hate his fucking guts and will continue to do so until further notice. I’m your best friend, that’s my job.”

“You’re very good at your job,” Arthur agrees warmly. 

“I should have punched him when I found him making out with Max at Dragon*Con,” Ariadne says, shaking her head. That Arthur has to debate whether she means Aqualad-Max or Zatanna-Max is a testament to Nash’s track record. He’s pretty sure she means Aqualad-Max.

Arthur shrugs. “That time didn’t really count, I mean, we were seeing other people—”

“ _Arthur._ Seeing other people? You mean when Nash was fucking anything that moved and you were miserable about it? That’s not an ‘open relationship’ or whatever, that’s just being an asshole and putting a fancy label on it.”

Arthur sighs. As usual, Ariadne’s right. 

“Seriously, top of my list of regrets: not kissing Mary Renkowski at prom, and not punching Nash in the dick when I had the chance,” she says, tucking her credit card into their bill. It’s her turn to pay.

“Hey, you may still have a chance. You know he’ll be at BKCC.” 

“Is that why you’re dressing like jailbait?” Ariadne had made her feelings about Arthur’s skimpy Robin costume known in no uncertain terms. They were _mostly_ approving feelings. Ariadne never said “slutty” like it was a bad thing, but she’d definitely said it when Arthur had shown her the picture. 

“I’m 28,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes.

“Emotional jailbait,” Ariadne amends, giving him the no-bullshit Bambi look. 

“And no, it’s not. I just wanted to try something new.”

Ariadne smiles archly. “Sounds like harness-guy might want you to try a few new things, too.”

Arthur snorts. “ _Please.”_ He relents, “fine, he’s nosebleed-inducingly hot, sure, but I don’t need to get laid badly enough to risk a trip to the ER.”

Ariadne makes a face implying she’s not so sure about this. Everyone who meets them together at Cons assumes Arthur is the promiscuous one, because he’s a gay guy and generally clad in skin-tight spandex. These are the same people who have never been kicked out of their shared hotel room so Ariadne can have a threesome with two girls dressed as the Wonder Twins.

“I want more than that, Ari. Guy like that’s only good for one thing, and it’s not a relationship.”

“You would make a magnificent lesbian,” Ariadne sighs. It’s marginally more cheerful than her usual retort about him being a hopeless romantic.

“And steal your thunder? Never.” Arthur rises out of his chair, stretching. He’s the good kind of sore from yoga. He’s getting better at his Eight-Angle pose, although it leaves his upper back aching. The ache is how he knows he’s getting better.

Ariadne slings her arm around his waist. “If only you were a lady and we could just life-partner it up.”

Arthur tucks her under his shoulder. “I’d make a terrible woman. You’d be a much hotter guy.”

“True,” Ariadne says, not even bothering to argue. “But it would never work, either way.”

“Why not?”

Ariadne boops him on the nose before sliding out of his grasp to gallantly hold the door open. “Because we’re both bottoms.”

Arthur laughs and follows her out of the bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Now with a pretty tumblr post thanks to ExaggeratedSpecificity!](https://saltandbyrne.tumblr.com/post/615045580441501696/mr-eames-and-the-boy-wonder-chapter-1-inception)


	2. Chapter 2

Eames has always called himself an Early-Presenting Homosexual. That’s a term he made up sometime in lower sixth, but it’s always rung true for him. 

While the other boys were posturing their masculinity and proclaiming their love for big-breasted pop stars, Eames had been doing his level best to kiss every boy he could get his hands on, and Eames has always had greedy hands. The stories his mum tells—the time he got sent home for tackling Harry Mintz and kissing him, the time he got sent home for snogging Harry’s older brother in the potting shed, the time he’d gotten in a row with one of the older boys at church and then kissed _him_. Eames has always known what he is.

Eames strode into his first BDSM club at the tender age of 18, chest puffed and the easy muscles of youth bursting out of his twin-tipped Perry. He’d worked his way up the ladder like everyone else, first under the firm hand of a tough old cigar-loving Leather Daddy named Oscar who’d taught Eames everything he knew the old-fashioned way. If Eames knows that having the bottoms of one’s feet caned is an especially dreadful kind of torture, he knows it because of Oscar. 

He’d learned the right way to choke someone out, how to tie boys up so they could dangle all night, how to tie boys up so they’d beg for mercy after five minutes, how to read tells and signs and the universal tongue of body language to know when he’s pushed too far or barely ventured afield. He knows how to hold someone close after, how to bring someone back to earth after he’s made them soar to such great heights. He knows the look of smothered panic that means he’s going to get a punch to the face if he tries to kiss someone, and he knows the look of smothered panic that means he’s going to make someone come so hard he passes out. Eames knows the look of someone who’s lying to himself. 

Arthur’s not as good a liar as Arthur fancies he is.

The rivet machine thrums in Eames’s hands as he pieces Arthur’s harness together. Making the bat-shape on the front has proven trickier than Eames had anticipated, so he’s on his second version. Eames takes great pride in his work, and he won’t send anything out unless it’s perfect. Of course, his meticulous revisions and attention to detail have _nothing_ to do with Arthur himself.

Eames snorts. Eames is an excellent liar, but he’s always honest with himself. He hasn’t spent a day of the past week free from thoughts of Arthur. Arthur with his whippet figure and his dimples and his pornographic comic book fancy-dress. Arthur with his warm skin and his lean muscle and the look of shocked need in his eyes when Eames had buckled him in _just_ a touch too snug.

Eames has spent his entire adult life learning to read people. It’s the meat of what makes him a good dom, the thing that brings him more satisfaction than getting his dick wet or watching some brave boy break down at his feet. Eames has always liked the psychological wetwork of sex much better, digging his fingers into someone’s psyche and plucking out precisely what they need from him. Foreplay is lovely, but Eames would rather ferret out the secret wants that lurk in someone’s Id and lure them to the surface. It’s heady and intoxicating and satisfying in a way that nothing else on Earth is. 

Eames could wring Arthur dry.

He strokes one hand down the freshly-riveted straps of Arthur’s harness, feeling for any minute burrs or imperfections. He’d made sure to pick the nicest hide sections for Arthur, with the fewest flaws and smoothest nap. 

He pins the front of the harness to one of his suit forms to double-check the lay and make sure he’s satisfied with the pattern. He fiddles with the placement, picturing the smooth swath of Arthur’s chest where the muslin fabric is now. _Just a fitting_ , Arthur had said, like he hadn’t shivered out of his skin at Eames’s touch. _Not my thing_ , like he wasn’t straining against his too-tight jeans at the merest suggestion of Eames manhandling him. 

“What are you so afraid of?” Eames murmurs to his size-medium suit form. He’s always a patient listener.

He finishes Arthur’s harness and sets it aside. He’ll rub it down with neatsfoot oil later, once it’s had time to breathe and settle into its shape. 

Eames has errands to run today. He’s delivering a few things to some of his more exacting clients, the ones who will pay extra to avoid going to Brooklyn themselves, and dropping off a small restock of leather paddles at a fetish store in Chelsea. 

After he’s showered and shaved, he picks a soft old Cock Sparrer shirt and a heavy pair of jeans that make his arse look good. There’s a set of red braces clipped to the waist from the last time he’d worn them, but Eames isn’t in the mood for them today, much as he loves looking like a proper cocksucking punk. He settles instead for a small red handkerchief that he folds and tucks into the back-left pocket. Nadia will appreciate the touch, and anyone who knows that he’s wearing the hanky code for a fisting top isn’t likely to give him any shit.

He tugs on his old Docs and double-wraps the laces. A hooded sweatshirt and a black bomber jacket have him out the door with a duffel bag full of bondage gear. He tucks his earbuds into his ears and decides it’s a GBH kind of day.

~

Eames delivers the paddles, the replacement piece for a sex swing he’d built last year (broken through no fault of Eames’s, he’s not the one who’s decided to pile three bears into one sling), a charming ball-gag with the couple’s anniversary date embossed into the side, and Mistress Nadia’s fetching new strap-on harness. Eames meanders his way through the city, working from the Lower East Side to west Midtown as he delivers his shiny presents to all the naughty boys and girls. He leaves Nadia’s spacious studio with time to kill before his dinner date with Astrid, an old friend who’s equally one of the kindest people and cruelest pro-doms he’s ever known. 

He wanders until he finds a coffee shop with a decent tea selection, content to grab a nice cuppa to go and kill a few hours wandering around. His barista is wearing a Wonder Woman t-shirt under her apron. Eames tips her generously. 

Maybe he’ll stop by Rome Fasteners and see if they have any new eyelets in stock. Eames is a shameless magpie, and he can always pick up some new shiny things for future projects. He sticks his earbuds back in and heads east.

Eames has walked down this block many times, close as it is to numerous pro-dom studios and garment suppliers. He stops half-way, blinking. Surely he’s passed this sign before. It’s the Baader-Meinhof Phenomenon—now that Arthur had gotten him thinking about comic books, he sees them everywhere. Eames slows in front of the sign for Midtown Comics and takes a sip of his tea. Fuck it.

The store is up a flight of stairs and larger than it looks from the outside. He’d expected the teeming shelves and jammed racks of comic books and graphic novels. There are more toys— _figurines_ , he supposes—than he’d expected, from life-size busts of women who’d look at home in one of the studios down the street, to tiny cartoon figures with huge heads and blank, creepy eyes. 

The staff acknowledge him with curt nods before returning to their other customers, which is just as well. He wouldn’t know what help to ask for if they offered. He finds the shelves of graphic novels off to one side.

Thankfully, there’s a large sign proclaiming _BATMAN_ , which seems as good a place to start as any. Eames quickly changes his mind as he stands in front of shelf after shelf of Batman titles. It’s Batman, of course there are going to be a lot, but he hadn’t thought it would be so overwhelming. He could ask one of the sales assistants, or he could just blindly grab a few volumes with interesting cover art and hope he’s not choosing absolute rubbish. He adds a few Robin titles to the pile and heads to the register.

Eames stares at the framed prints on the wall behind the register as he waits his turn, wondering how anyone could fail to notice the rampant homoerotic undercurrent in some of this stuff. He’s tilting his head at an ensemble print that looks straight out of a BDSM club when the cashier perks up and smiles.

“Hey, Arthur!”

Eames turns to look, the hairs on his neck prickling. He has no right to call Arthur “his” Arthur, but that is indeed _his_ Arthur striding through the door, with those long grasshopper legs and that neatly-gelled hair. Eames stands up taller, furiously wondering where he can hide the stack of books in his arm.

“Hey, Kell.”

Arthur’s smile is a lovely thing, dimpled and bright. It lingers on his face as he turns to the line of customers.

“Mr. Eames?” Arthur’s brow crinkles. Eames gives his best Ah, What A Lovely And Unexpected Surprise To See You smile, all while trying not to stare at what Arthur’s wearing.

Arthur calling him “Mister” in sweatpants and a dirty t-shirt would do things to Eames. The effect with Arthur’s sleek gray three-piece suit and a lovely aubergine tie is simply devastating. He’s seen Arthur shirtless, he knows exactly _how_ devastating that body is, but somehow wrapping it up in a waistcoat and fitted trousers makes it infinitely more delectable. 

“What are you doing here?” Arthur asks, his eyes flitting between Eames’s face and the stack of books in his arm.

Eames, who had publicly abandoned the notion of guilt at age sixteen in a dreadful performance-art piece that involved setting a pram on fire, feels like he’s been caught.

“I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d do a bit of research.”

“Research?" 

“I realized there might be an entire world of deviant homoerotic subtext I’ve missed. Thought I’d see what all the fuss is about. What are you doing here?” Eames says, as if it’s equally unlikely that Arthur would be haunting the stacks of a comic book store.

One of those smiles again. “It’s Wednesday.”

“Yes, and I believe they’ve got a Thursday scheduled for tomorrow, although I could be mistaken.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Wednesday is New Comic Day. I come here every week to get my pull.”

Eames could make so many choice comments about pulling Arthur. Instead he shrugs mildly. “This is all a bit new to me.”

“Let me see,” Arthur says, plucking the graphic novels out of Eames’s arm. Arthur has lovely hands, long and slender-fingered, with delicate tendons that flex as he flips through Eames’s selections. They’d be so beautiful bound behind his back.

“This is good, this is okay, oh— _this_ is terrible,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Come with me.”

Eames follows him back to the stacks. Arthur is clearly in his element here, flicking through titles and re-shelving half of Eames’s choices until Eames has a new stack of books. 

“ _Hush_ is one of the greatest Batman arcs ever written, you’ll love it. _White Knight_ is so good, too. This is my favorite Nightwing run—oh—and this one is kind of dark but I think you’ll like it,” he says, reaching up to add something called _The Killing Joke_ to his stack. “And if you want something that isn’t capes and tights, these are great.”

Arthur darts over a row and emerges with a copy of _Saga_ and _Sex Criminals_ in each respective hand. He piles them into Eames’s stack, which is growing so large he has to balance it against his chest.

“Shit, that’s a lot, isn’t it?”

“It’s fine, I’m a quick reader,” Eames offers, which is true. Even if it weren’t, Eames would eat one of the books in his arms before he’d do anything to dampen Arthur’s radiant enthusiasm. 

“One more.” Arthur grins and scans the Batman section again, his fingers flicking over the titles like he knows each one intimately. He must. 

“I think you’ll like the villain in this one. You have all those luchador masks at your place.” Arthur shrugs.

“Do you get a cut on all this?” Eames asks as he piles up his purchases at the register.

“I should,” Arthur says brightly, smiling at Kell the cashier. She rolls her eyes skyward. 

“I’ll give him your discount,” she concedes. It speaks well of a man when he’s liked by the women in his life. 

“Thank you, m’dear.” Eames smiles and hands over his card. He’s spent every penny of profit he might have made from Arthur’s commission. At least Arthur saves him ten percent.

They walk out together after Arthur has picked up his pre-selected stack of single-issue comics. 

“I’ve some time to kill before dinner. Seeing as you just saved me from whatever Frank Miller is, can I at least buy you a drink?”

The war on Arthur’s face is palpable. Arthur’s easy to read in a way that makes Eames hungry. 

Eames sticks his new library in his bag and slings it around his back. “Coffee? You’ll save me from boredom.”

“I could go for an iced coffee,” Arthur says, a smile escaping the tight rein he clearly tries to keep on himself. Arthur is delicious.

Eames grins. “Perfect. I know just the place.”

~

Arthur drinks his iced coffee with the barest hint of cream. Eames watches the pale swirl disappear as Arthur thrashes his straw in a choppy circle.

“You look lovely today,” Eames says, cupping his mug of tea in his palms and following Arthur to a table. “Are you getting married? Or speaking in court?”

“I had a meeting,” Arthur explains, picking a table in the corner and folding his suit jacket over one chair with practiced ease. Arthur in a waistcoat and dress shirt is almost too much temptation for Eames, who could send all those buttons flying helter-skelter. He sits opposite Arthur and sprawls out in his chair.

“What were you doing in the neighborhood?” Arthur asks, swirling his drink again before taking a sip.

“I was dropping off some deliveries.”

Arthur’s eyebrows raise a fraction. “What kind of deliveries?”

Eames leans back in his chair and blows over the rim of his mug. He can rise to Arthur’s dare.

“Nothing you’re into, darling.” Eames looks away, coy and not a little bit smug, and maybe it’s cruel to tease Arthur like this, but it’s goddamned fun.

“I’m not, that’s not… I’m not some kind of prude.” Arthur’s posture straightens. 

“You’re an American, of course you are.” Eames leans forward a fraction. “That’s what makes fucking you lot so much fun.”

The color on Arthur’s cheeks is pretty. “Tell me.”

“Well, first I dropped off some custom paddles at Purple Passion, lovely place. I make all sorts of things for them—switches, crops, whips, floggers. I’m fond of a paddle, really gets a boy to sing for you.” Eames isn’t exactly using his outside voice, but he’s not pitching himself down, either. Arthur shifts minutely in his seat.

“Then I dropped off a new sling for Marcus and his husbands, delightful thrupple with the most gorgeous townhouse in Gramercy, you’d love it. I’d told them that sex swing could only handle up to two of them at a time, but you know how it is when you’re in the heat of the moment and piling on bodies. I think it was some sort of double fisting incident, I didn’t ask for more details.”

“We’ve all been there,” says Arthur dryly, lips pursed around his straw.

“Indeed. Then, let’s see, I dropped off a new ball-gag, an anniversary gift, isn’t that sweet? And then the _pièce de résistance_ , a new strap-on harness for my friend Mistress Nadia, real work of art. She let me take some pictures, would you like to see?”

Eames is prepared for Arthur to wave him off, say something snitty and sip his iced coffee. It’s a pleasant surprise when Arthur leans forward, lean forearms braced on the café table. “Please.”

“Such good manners,” Eames murmurs, gliding his phone out from his bomber jacket pocket. He swipes to a picture of Nadia, proud as a peacock with her new toy between her legs. She’s also naked from the waist down.

Eames pauses, frowning. “You’re not one of these gays that makes disgusted faces at vulvas, are you? I find that quite offensive.”

Arthur barks out a laugh. “I would never have lasted this long sharing hotel rooms with my best friend if I were vulva-averse, I promise. I have witnessed a truly spectacular amount of lesbian sex first-hand. And I agree, that’s gross and shitty and misogynistic.” Arthur takes Eames’s phone and stares at the picture, his eyes lighting up. “That’s beautiful.”

Nadia preens in the photo, her hands resting on her nipped-in waist, emphasizing the overlapping strips of leather that arc out from her hips in an exaggerated silhouette. A huge red rubber cock sticks out proudly. Arthur spreads his fingers to zoom in over the arched facets of the harness, following the slopes of leather with his eyes. “It looks like plate armor.”

“Yes, that’s what I was going for. I was sketching some armor at the Met and thought, one of those codpieces would make a wicked strap.” Eames smiles, oddly pleased that Arthur not only likes his work but gets the reference. 

“What’s it, cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war?” Arthur laughs, gesturing at the truly impressive cock Nadia had immediately slipped into the O-ring. “That thing looks like it could defeat the nine realms in one swoop.”

“Nadia certainly could. She’s a vicious bitch with her subs. I adore her.”

“Her subs,” Arthur repeats. “So is she… like you?”

Eames arches a pointed eyebrow at Nadia’s clearly visible, and if he does say so himself, expertly-accessorized cunt.

“Is she… a dominatrix?” Arthur clarifies, mumbling half of it through his teeth.

“She’s a pro-dom, yes. A very good one.” Eames waits, patiently sipping his tea. 

Arthur glances at the empty tables next to them. “Is that… do you do that, too?”

Eames tilts his head. “Never had the business sense to charge money for it. I’m the fool who ties up pretty boys for free.

“So you’re just, I don’t know, a Master?"

Eames snorts. “I’m a dom, yeah. Not big on the Master Daddy Lord So-and-So titles. The good boys get to call me Mr. Eames.”

He meets Arthur’s eyes, hungry for the brief burst of emotion that runs across Arthur’s face. Curiosity, fear, desire—Arthur’s eyes widen and his nostrils flare. A muscle in his jaw tics. Eames could push him, but sometimes it’s better to let things simmer.

“But that’s enough about me, I’m really a bore once you take away all the deviant sex, I swear. I want to know why you like dressing up like a costumed sidekick.” Eames is genuinely curious. Arthur’s too good a puzzle to leave unpieced. 

“I don’t expect anyone to understand,” Arthur says, defenses threatening to snap down on Eames like a portcullis. 

“I understand wanting to dress as someone else. What do you think all the leather daddies and Bettie Page doms and French maid sissies are doing? It’s fun to put on someone else’s skin, get outside of yourself for a while. We all need to escape, Arthur.”

Arthur’s shoulders lose some of their tension as Eames continues. 

“I want to know why you chose this character out of all the others. With that figure, I suspect you could take your pick of the litter, no?”

Arthur’s pleased by his compliment. His eyes peek up and his finger circles around the ridged lid of his drink. “Robin has… one of the longest journeys of anyone in the DCU. DC Universe,” he clarifies when Eames gives him a blank look.

“He goes through all this trauma when he’s a kid, and then has this huge responsibility foisted onto him. But he keeps growing, and eventually he becomes his own person.

Arthur goes somewhere else for a moment before he looks at Eames. 

“My parents died, when I was a kid. Car accident. It’s easy to attach yourself to a character who goes through the same shit, you know?”

“I’m so sorry, Arthur.” Eames doesn’t risk placing his hand over Arthur’s, even though he’d like to. 

“Thanks. It meant a lot to me, thinking that I was just like Dick Grayson. My parents couldn’t come to parent-teacher conference night or take me on class trips, but neither could his, and he got to fight crime and live in a mansion. I lived with my grandmother for a long time, and I’d feel like a freak for having this old lady pick me up from school. But Alfred was old, too… sorry, Alfred Pennyworth, he’s Batman’s butler.”

“English chap?”

“Yeah.” Arthur smiles. “My grandma was a tiny old Jewish lady from the north side of Chicago, but she had the white hair. She used to take me to the comic book store every Wednesday.”

“Little did she know she was buying you homosexual propaganda,” Eames says in a stage-whisper.

Arthur snorts. “I always wanted to be Robin, but Nightwing… he’s the first guy I can remember looking at and clearly thinking, I want to kiss him on the mouth.”

“I know the feeling,” Eames murmurs, arching an eyebrow at Arthur. 

Arthur pretends to ignore him, but Eames catches the twitch of his lips. “I had this poster of him, I saved up for weeks to get it, and God, I used to,” he leans in, a conspiratorial smile on his face. “I used to jerk off to it every night.”

Arthur musing about wanking to some cartoon when he’s pressed into that suit does things to every inch of Eames. He takes a steady breath through his nose as Arthur continues.

“When my grandma died I had to move in with my aunt, in Evanston. She was nice, she tried… but her husband and I never got along. I’m still not sure if he hated me more for being gay, or for being a fucking nerd. I think it was the latter.” Arthur takes a sip of his coffee and smiles. “But I still had these stories. Even when my uncle was making me watch football and telling me to get a girlfriend, I always had this other world.

Eames’s old mentor had once told him that the most important part of being a dom was something he could never teach Eames—how to listen. Arthur is telling him something special, something precious. His eyes aren’t fully focused, and his fingers are doing an Anansi-dance over his cup. Eames leans forward and waits for Arthur to come back to him.

“I don’t… really talk about this too often,” Arthur says after a moment, blinking his eyes rapidly.

“It must have been terrible,” Eames says quietly, giving Arthur space to continue if he wants to.

Arthur shrugs. “It wasn’t all bad. I met Ariadne when I switched schools. She’s my best friend, and she’s the one who got me into doing cosplay. Her parents used to let me hide all my shit at her house."

Eames takes a thoughtful sip of his tea. “With a name like that, I’m picturing a hippie commune or a tweedy collegial couple with three doctorates between them.”

“Good instincts. Her mom is a classics professor, and her dad is a linguist. They’re kind of my de-facto parents now too, I guess. I think that Nightwing poster is still somewhere in their garage.” 

Arthur leans onto the table, left hand splaying out across the stained marble. He ducks his head down and whispers, _sotto voce_ , “I learned to jerk off without the poster pretty quickly.”

Eames isn’t one for oaths, but he makes a private vow to God and the ghost of Oscar Wilde himself that he will watch Arthur do just that if it’s the last thing he does on Earth. Arthur’s eyes gleam as he looks up at Eames. It’s an easy volley, but he’ll let it ride for now. 

“Do you have any pictures? I want to see you in this Nightwing ensemble.”

“Sure,” Arthur says, pulling his phone out from his inside pocket. He swipes open an Instagram page, _BoyWunderkind_. Eames blinks, his mind stuttering between the tailored beauty before him and the rakish, masked figure smiling back from Arthur’s phone.

“You’re… _well_.” Eames grabs Arthur’s phone, never one for good etiquette if he can get a better glimpse of an arse like Arthur’s. And glimpses there are, aplenty. Half of Arthur’s costumes look like they’re painted on, hugging each sinuous curve of muscle and trim tuck of his waist. Arthur wears catsuits. So many catsuits. 

“And you make all of these?” Eames asks, scrolling past picture after picture of what must be dozens of subtly-different outfits. Eames is a tactile creature, and the endless textures and weaves that hug Arthur’s body make his fingers itch to caress them.

“Most of them,” Arthur says, a note of pride in his voice. “I’m self-taught, but I’ve had a lot of practice.”

“What are these made of?” Eames gestures to a ribbed pattern on one of Arthur’s outfits, a navy blue that sheens silver in the reflected light.

“I use a lot of neoprene, it’s great stuff. Really moves with you. And spandex, of course. To get the right fit, you have to use two-way stretch, and to make those work, I had to learn to use a serger. It was brutal. But I’m always experimenting with new fabrics.”

“Experimentation is so important,” Eames agrees, not looking up until he scrolls past a particularly lurid photo of Arthur. He’s twisted into an angle that looks both ergonomically ill-advised and pornographically spectacular, with his arse in full, glorious view as he looks back at the camera and balances some sort of weapon in his hands. A petite girl stands next to him, facing forward with her legs planted squarely and her gloved hands on her hips. A red cape billows out behind her. 

“Oh, that was the Hawkeye Initiative challenge.”

“Does this involve an ice bucket or some such?” Sadly, the next picture does not feature a soaking-wet Arthur, but Eames has always had a vivid imagination.

“There’s this thing, where female superheroes are always drawn in these ridiculously sexualized poses, while the men are always standing straight-on. An artist drew one of the male superheroes, Hawkeye, standing like that, and it sort of took off.”

“Can I get this one printed out poster-sized?” Eames asks, pulling a mask of lamb-like innocence over his face.

“Very funny,” Arthur retorts, but he can’t hide the pleased smile on his face. 

Eames surrenders Arthur’s phone and leans his face against his hand, letting his pinky brush over his lips as he looks at Arthur.

“I’m very impressed,” he says, truthfully. Arthur’s costumes look as good as anything he’s seen in the movies. The attention to detail is spectacular, and Arthur’s clearly sculpted his body to show them to best effect. He jumps as his phone buzzes in his pocket.

“Oh, God, that’s Astrid.” Eames has lost track of the time in Arthur’s splendid company. He can’t recall the last time that had happened. “She hates being kept waiting, and I have watched her electrocute a man’s testicles on more than one occasion.” Eames drains the last of his tea and throws his bomber on.

“I hope you like the books. Let me know what you think.” Arthur stands with him and grabs both their empty cups. 

“I will,” Eames says, watching as Arthur cleans up after them and resisting the impulse to tell him what a good job he’s done. “It was nice to see you, Arthur.

Eames does give into his impulse to lean in and kiss Arthur on the cheek. “I’ll text you when your piece is ready."

Even buttoned up into his jacket and wrapped in an inky merino scarf, Arthur is clearly pleased. His fingers brush over his cheek when Eames looks down to zip his jacket up, but Eames has always been sharp-eyed. He winks and leaves Arthur standing by the table, looking vaguely dazed and radiant against the neutral grey of the coffee shop.

Eames is exultant when he greets the cold air outside. He flips his hood up and darts across Seventh, his good mood unsullied by even the threat of violence against his physical person for leaving Astrid waiting. She’ll get over it, and Eames will have Arthur to console him. He’s sure of it. 

There is no version of reality in which a man who parades about in skintight catsuits doesn’t have a kinky streak.

~

Eames abhors social media. It’s insipid and pointless and a waste of time he could spend getting into trouble, or at least reading. Still, once he’s tucked into bed, he downloads Instagram onto his phone and types Arthur’s username in. 

For the first time in his life, Eames has a wank to a man in a Nightwing costume.

~

Arthur rings his doorbell at precisely 1:00 PM. Eames smiles as he buzzes him in. Punctual means good at following orders

“Hello, Arthur."

Arthur’s wearing his peacoat again, and he has a sleek black duffel bag hanging from his shoulder. Eames makes sure to bolt the door from the inside as Arthur takes his coat off; Yusuf will not be not cock-blocking him today. Arthur sets his bag on Eames’s counter and pulls out a glossy black garment.

“I brought the jacket.” Arthur shrugs. “Wanted to make sure it’d look right all together.” He unfolds it, giving Eames a glimpse of a stiff collar and a turned lapel before placing it on the counter.

“Brilliant.” Eames strokes his thumb over the material, some kind of synthetic pleather that gleams a brilliant black. It doesn’t give him the same visceral thrill as leather, but the idea of Arthur half-naked inside it more than makes up for it. Arthur will be more than half-naked in his little costume. Eames grins. “No shorts?”

Arthur has truly made an art of the mile-long stare. Eames has always liked a vein of sarcasm in a good boy, a little salt in the caramel. It makes him want to kiss Arthur right there, tease out the precious dimples of that smile. 

Eames shrugs. “A man can dream.” He savors the tiny dart of a smile that sneaks onto Arthur’s face. “She’s ready when you are,” he says, extending one arm in invitation toward his worktable. Next to it, the harness is draped over one of Eames’s mannequins. It’s been nice having it as company while he works on other projects.

Arthur takes his shirt off with no urging from Eames this time. Eames can’t miss the stiffness in his posture, the slope of his shoulders as he doesn’t quite stand up straight. Arthur’s nervous. 

“Right then, let’s get this on.” Eames keeps his voice brisk and professional, _snip-snap, come-along-lads_. No use to spook the horse before it’s in the bridle. Eames unbuckles the harness and holds it up for Arthur’s inspection. Arthur just nods, clearly steeling himself. 

Slowly, Eames slides the harness over Arthur’s bare shoulders. Arthur may be gifted with sardonic stares and silences, but his body whispers its secrets to Eames all the same. The whoosh of breath he lets out as the leather touches his skin, the minute jump of a muscle in his jaw as his teeth unclench, the fall of his eyelashes when Eames’s hands lay the straps to rights across his chest. Arthur is sinking. 

Eames tightens each strap, breathing in the secret scent of Arthur’s hair and the soft warmth of his skin. He dallies, indulging himself as he fiddles with each strap and buckle. He’d left room for some adjustment, in case Arthur ever bulks up or loses weight, although the thought of Arthur getting any skinnier makes Eames itch for the nearest tin of biscuits. Arthur’s perfect how he is, a thing for marble and celluloid, and somehow, today, he’s Eames’s to play with. Eames has always liked dressing people up, arranging them until they’re exactly how he wants them. Arthur doesn’t seem to mind it, his lips parted and his head bowed softly as Eames fusses over him.

“There we are,” Eames says under his breath, turning Arthur to face the full-length mirror next to the table.

Arthur’s hands flex at his sides. He stares in the mirror, rapt, as Eames adjusts him. 

Eames takes the jacket from the table and slips it on, humming as Arthur slides his hands into the arms, biddable even if he’s still stiff. 

_“Et voilà,”_ Eames whispers, standing behind Arthur to look at him in the mirror. Even without the tiny shorts, Arthur is the stuff of boy-bait dreams.

“You’re gorgeous,” Eames says, letting the earnestness in his voice speak for itself. He drags one finger down the arm of Arthur’s jacket.

“This fits you perfectly,” he notes, reaching over Arthur’s arm to flip one of the lapels back and forth. It’s a beautiful piece, something that could easily hang on the rack at any boutique. It’s cropped to his shoulder blades in the back, ending just below his pecs in the front, giving anyone lucky enough to witness it an unobstructed view of Arthur’s nipped-in waist. Eames knows tightlacers who would murder someone for a figure like that. Cleverly, Arthur has clearly tailored his jacket to be worn open, to fall just right and expose the perfect amount of bare skin. Eames’s harness peeks out underneath, an inky tease against Arthur’s pale skin. “You’re very talented, Arthur.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says, standing up straighter at Eames’s praise. “So are you. This looks... it’s exactly what I wanted.” Arthur nods at his reflection, setting his jaw. Eames licks his lips.

“Is it?” Eames catches Arthur’s eye in the mirror as he snags two fingers into the O-ring dangerously close to Arthur’s right nipple. Arthur shivers, his eyes fluttering to half-mast.

“Why did you have me make this, Arthur?”

Arthur frowns, unsure. “I did some research. Everyone says you’re the best.”

The hardware has warmed to Arthur’s skin. Eames circles his finger around the ring, tracing over it as Arthur shivers. “Flattery will get you far, darling, but that’s not why. Surely your research told you I don’t generally make things for the fashion set.” Eames had almost ignored Arthur’s email when he’d gotten it. He’s had too many fashionistas wanting some scandalous accessory for Burning Man for one lifetime. Arthur’s picture had been enough to intrigue him, and clearly Eames’s gut instincts are still spot-on. Arthur’s nipple pebbles up into a pretty little peak as Eames watches.

“I wanted something authentic,” Arthur says, eyes downcast until Eames sneaks a hand up the back of Arthur’s jacket and grabs the back of the harness, using it to bring Arthur closer to him. It only takes the barest pressure to make Arthur move. 

“Tell me you’re not curious. About what I do.” Eames’s harness fits perfectly, the gentle curves of the leather forming a bat-emblem that sits perfectly above Arthur’s pecs. Eames follows the curves of each wing, dragging his fingers along impeccable leather and hinting at the warm skin underneath. Heavy-lidded, his lips parting with each sweep of Eames’s hands, Arthur’s already swaying for him.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Arthur’s voice catches as Eames twists at the leather strap running up his back.

Eames clicks his tongue. “I don’t like being lied to, Arthur.” There it is, that full-body shiver at the slightest hint of discipline. _Oh, Arthur._

“That feeling, that little itch at the base of your skull? I can scratch that, Arthur,” Eames says, flexing his hands in Arthur’s harness. 

Arthur presses his lips into a thin white line. “I don’t… I don’t know,” he whispers, his voice as tight as his hands curled at his sides. There’ll be a hole in Eames’s hardwood if Arthur keeps staring at the floor like that. Eames’s lips are close enough to brush over Arthur’s neck, to let his breath graze over Arthur’s skin as Arthur resolutely closes his eyes. Arthur’s fighting this, whatever this is that’s brewing to a head between them. It would be so easy to tip the balance, to wield that last bit of leverage and force Arthur to his crisis. Eames has tripped that wire before, and paid the price. Fucking Americans.

Eames was born a thief, but there are certain things that should only be given freely.

“That’s all right, then,” Eames murmurs softly, easing his grip slowly, patting each strap in place as he slides his hands to Arthur’s shoulders. Eames will tease, but this isn’t the time to push. He can’t whet Arthur’s appetite any more than he has without slicing himself on the blade.

“Are you going to wear this home, or shall I pack it up for you?” Eames forces some cheer into his voice. “Personally, my vote’s on wearing it out.” 

Arthur laughs, thank God, and tilts his head. “I think I’d scandalize the G train,” he replies finally, adjusting the lapels of his jacket. Arthur is an entire alphabet of scandal, each letter of which will slowly drive Eames mad.

“I think you’d make everyone’s day. You certainly made mine.” Eames steals one last glance at Arthur in the mirror, at the flush on his skin, the perk of his nipples like a siren song to Eames’s mouth. He’s _so close_. Eames takes a steady breath and leaves Arthur to admire himself. He gathers Arthur’s shirt from its neat fold over one of Eames’s work stools.

“Then again, you might be a bit cold.” Eames places Arthur’s shirt on the counter in front of him. 

Arthur smiles. “Yeah, I’ll change, thank you.” He slips out of the jacket and lets Eames show him which parts of his harness to unclasp to make getting out of it easier. Eames leaves Arthur to his shirt as he carries the harness to his teeming “packaging” table, overflowing with the masses of tissue paper, tape, and USPS boxes Eames uses to pack and ship his wares. The harness is still warm from hugging Arthur’s chest. Eames squeezes the straps in his fist, fighting the urge to bring them to his nose. The more Arthur wears it, the more it will start to smell like him, and the more Arthur’s bare skin will smell like leather when he takes it off. It will seep into his skin when he sweats, forming some new scent that Eames can barely begin to imagine. Eames can’t bear to live without that knowledge.

He wraps Arthur’s new harness in black tissue paper and tucks his care instructions inside. He puts it all into a plain black paper shopping bag and dangles it from his index finger.

“Your convention’s this weekend, then?” Eames leans back as Arthur reaches for his purchase. 

“Yeah,” Arthur nods, indulgently following Eames to pluck his bag from Eames’s fingers. He folds the bag and adds it to the contents of his duffel bag. It’s efficient, but Eames had rather liked the idea of Arthur walking around with Eames’s work dangling like a shiny present from his sketch-worthy hands.

“You’re going to steal the show.” Eames has never set foot in a comic book convention or cosplay contest or whatever event Arthur’s attending, but he’s been to enough parties to know Arthur will paralyze any room he graces with his presence. Eames’s flat is more beautiful with Arthur inside it. Eames won’t die if he doesn’t see Arthur again, but it’s a dreadful thought.

“You haven’t even seen the shorts,” Arthur says brightly, just to visibly regret it a second later. Eames blusters on, not giving Arthur time to regret his natural flirtation. Arthur is at war, but Eames has a white flag up his sleeve.

“Speaking of shows,” Eames says, “I’m giving a demo, next week. On suspension bondage. I thought you’d like to come. Bring your friend, Arachne was it?”

Eames writes a date and address for Nadia’s studio on the back of one of his cards and presses it into Arthur’s hand.

“Ariadne,” Arthur says carefully, staring down at Eames’s card like it might detonate. “Her name’s Ariadne.”

“Right, I’ll leave your names at the door.” Eames smiles as Arthur tucks his card into the pocket of his smart coat. 

Arthur frowns. “I’m not sure—”

“Don’t worry, Arthur, it’s a glorified cocktail party. Everyone keeps their pants on, although if you felt inclined to wear those shorts…”

Arthur smiles at that, rolls his eyes, even. Eames has him.

“I owe you for helping me pick out all those comic books. You show me your world, I’ll show you mine, yeah?” Eames spreads his hands out in front of him. A truce.

Arthur looks around the room, eyes landing on all the larger pieces of bondage furniture Eames has scattered about. They’re all lovely pieces, if Eames does say so, from the spanking bench he’d upholstered himself to the suspension rig that lords over one corner. Arthur is so curious Eames can taste it.

“I’ll think about it,” Arthur finally answers, as he buttons up his coat and slings his duffel bag across his chest. Eames unlocks the loft door and follows Arthur out onto the landing, content to watch the slim retreat of Arthur’s back down his stairs.

Arthur stops, and it’s Eames’s turn to blink in surprise as Arthur presses a quick kiss to his cheek.

“Goodbye, Mr. Eames.”

Eames leans against his doorframe, smiling as the old stairs creak under Arthur’s quick steps. 

Eames meets so many boys. Most of them want him for his reputation, some for his skill, a few for his charm. None of them keep him guessing like Arthur. Eames traces his finger over the ghost of Arthur’s kiss.

Back inside, Eames puts the kettle on and fishes around in his cabinet until he finds some dried mango. He needs something sweet, so he tears off a hunk with his teeth and chews it thoughtfully as he clears a space on his workbench. Eames has other pieces to work on and orders to fill, paperwork to wrangle, his usual mess of inquiry emails and invitations and offers. It’s best to keep busy, instead of woolgathering about whether Arthur will find the pluck to come see him at Nadia’s. He grabs a stack of papers and moves them aside, barely glancing at them until a page slips free. 

It’s his printout of Arthur’s illustration, the one he’d originally emailed to Eames. Before he can think better of it, Eames grabs a bright blue pencil and adds a few details to the picture—the dimple that will crease Arthur’s right cheek when he smirks like that, the sharper cut of his hips, the upward slope of his eyebrows. Arthur had chosen to mold himself into this. Eames smiles as he shades in the dip of Arthur’s abs. He’ll see Arthur again.

Eames sighs into the empty air of his home. “And now, we wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [pretty pretty on tumblr!](https://saltandbyrne.tumblr.com/post/615671847824113664/mr-eames-and-the-boy-wonder-chapter-2-up-now) Thank you ExaggeratedSpecificity my love!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I always imagine these places looking like the inside of Skeletor’s castle.” Arthur looks up at the thoroughly modern light fixtures, not a candelabra in sight. Even the furniture that’s clearly designed for restraint has sleek lines, mingling with the Starck Ghost Chairs and subtle eye-bolts dotting the walls. There are doors labeled with numbers flanking two walls, leading to what Arthur assumes are private rooms. 
> 
> “Didn’t know you spent that much time thinking about sex dungeons,” Ariadne says, primly sipping her champagne. Arthur ignores her and settles back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest.

“I don’t think we should go.” 

Arthur picks at his salad, frowning at an olive as he rolls it around with his fork. He hasn’t had an appetite all day.

“We’re going,” Ariadne says, taking a hearty bite of her own salad.

Arthur tries to look pathetic as he gives Ariadne his best puppy eyes. “What if I have a headache?

It had seemed like a good idea. Arthur had sat on Eames’s card all weekend, with Eames’s looped script sitting in the back of his mind like an itch even his usual con-high couldn’t scratch. He and Javier had looked amazing, and they’d even won first place for Couple’s Costume. The fact that Nash hadn’t shown up has nothing to do with Arthur’s lingering restlessness.

“We’re going,” Ariadne repeats, crunching something from her salad before gesturing down at her outfit. “I even wore something slutty.”

Ariadne’s standards for “slutty” are generous, but she does look adorable in her iridescent skater dress and deep maroon tights. Her dress is low-cut, but per Ariadne’s ever-present tendency to be cold, she’s wrapped in an oversized scarf emblazoned with tie-dye Batman symbols. She’s a rainbow of reds and pinks and shiny purples, a nice contrast to the stark black and white of Arthur’s outfit. He’d gone with black slacks, a white oxford, and a skinny black tie with the small enamel Nightwing tie pin Ariadne had given him for Chrismukkah two years ago. It matches his cufflinks. When in doubt, go classic. Arthur had not even entertained the thought of wearing his new harness

It had been amazing to wear it at the con. Arthur doesn’t usually show that much skin, but every time he’d moved and felt the leather grazing against him, Arthur had stood up a little taller and cocked his hips a little more aggressively. He’d gotten plenty of interested overtures, but they’d all seemed so dull, too narrow in the shoulders and too plain in their skin. It had been fun to make them watch as he strode by with Javier at his side. By the time he’d gotten on stage he’d been swaggering, sure that Nash would swallow his own tongue at the sight of him. It’s Nash’s loss for missing out, really, and fuck him anyway. Arthur had still had a great time. They’d all celebrated at the after-party, and he’d tipsily mentioned Eames’s invitation to Ariadne. It had seemed like a good idea, hey, let’s go check this out and gawk at a bunch of weirdos in gimp masks. At least Eames would actually be there, unlike fucking Nash who can’t even show up at a local con

Arthur stares glumly at his salad and regrets several of his life decisions.

“Arthur, my future wife could be at this demo. Or at least regular booty-call. You are not denying me this chance.” Ariadne’s fork hits her plate with an emphatic clatter.

Arthur smiles fondly at her as they settle the bill. No one can fault Ariadne for lacking enthusiasm.

“Besides, your hair looks amazing,” she adds as she settles her scarf around her neck.

“My barber’s kind of a bitch, but she does a good job,” Arthur quips, ducking quickly as Ariadne throws a slap at him. 

The address Eames had given him is on a non-descript block just north of Herald Square. It’s not like Arthur had expected the opening of Eyes Wide Shut, but the bland, scuffed-up lobby with pedestrian buzzers and a directory of nondescript business names is mildly underwhelming. Arthur finds buzzer #3 and smiles at the small “M Nadia” sign. That strap-on harness Eames had shown him really had been gorgeous.

They take an industrial elevator to the third floor, and Arthur’s surprise at being greeted by a man in a bowtie and no shirt is only surpassed by Ariadne’s delight.

“This is gonna be _weird_ ,” she whispers, a huge smile on her face as their shirtless butler takes their coats. They follow him through a set of black curtains, where a girl wearing a maid’s uniform right out of every anime Ariadne has ever made him watch stands with a clipboard.

Arthur gives his name. 

“Ah, you’re one of Mr. Eames’s special guests,” she says, her lips pursed in a cute smile as she pulls a piece of paper from her clipboard and places it on top. “Lucky boy. Sign this disclaimer, please.”

“Oh, I’m not doing anything—” 

“You sign the paper or you don’t get in.” She smiles politely and holds out a pen.

After Arthur and Ariadne have signed away their rights to sue the establishment for any bodily harm and have agreed to the rules of the house, the girl escorts them through a second set of curtains.

“There are refreshments at the bar. And I’d recommend getting a seat soon, Mr. Eames always draws a full house.”

Arthur’s never been to a dungeon before. He only has vague references from Skinemax movies and scrambled porn from his childhood, neither of which he’d ever been terribly interested in. This place seems much nicer than anything he’d caught on his aunt’s late-night television. It’s more modern than medieval, with sleek black couches and acrylic chairs mixed in with the wrought-iron bondage furniture. Some things have clearly been moved to make way for the show. Rows of folding chairs form a half-moon around a raised platform, where an iron rack with multiple attachment points sits above a stool. A small table on the side holds coiled lengths of rope and some other supplies. The heat on Arthur’s cheeks only rises as he scans the room, taking in the 40-odd guests whose outfits range from a full formal tux to what he could best describe as “artistic electrical tape.” Arthur doesn’t see Eames.

“There’s champagne?” Ariadne tugs him by the wrist to the bar, where more men in bowties and little else pour them sparkling flutes. He can’t fault the hostess’s taste in shirtless men.

“I was expecting more velvet,” she says, looking around as they make their way to the third row of seats. Arthur doesn’t want to be too close.

“I always imagine these places looking like the inside of Skeletor’s castle.” Arthur looks up at the thoroughly modern light fixtures, not a candelabra in sight. Even the furniture that’s clearly designed for restraint has sleek lines, mingling with the Starck Ghost Chairs and subtle eye-bolts dotting the walls. There are doors labeled with numbers flanking two walls, leading to what Arthur assumes are private rooms. 

“Didn’t know you spent that much time thinking about sex dungeons,” Ariadne says, primly sipping her champagne. Arthur ignores her and settles back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest.

There’s a hum through the crowd as a statuesque woman mounts the stage. She gleams in the light, covered stem-to-stern in glossy black latex, waist cinched in so small it makes Arthur take a deep breath. Ice-blonde hair is pulled back into a severe bun, and the red of her lips perfectly matches her nails. This can only be Nadia.

“Ladies, et cetera, thank you for joining me this evening.” The entire room falls silent at the first syllable. Ariadne sits up ram-rod straight beside him as Nadia continues.

“Our guest this evening is one of the most talented riggers I know. He’s won second place at IML three years in a row, he can build anything out of leather your heart can dream up, and he’s a dear personal friend of mine.”

“What’s IML?” Ariadne whispers.

“Not sure,” Arthur says, tempted to look it up on his phone when the crowd erupts into applause. Arthur looks up, and there’s Eames, ascending the stage in one swift leap and accepting a matching set of cheek-kisses from Mistress Nadia. 

Eames looks like he’d be just as comfortable in a mosh-pit or a Man-U riot. Tight jeans hug his legs in inky indigo, making the most of his muscled thighs and distractingly-thick ass. Even his calves are big, hugged tight where he’s got his jeans cuffed over the tops of his combat boots. A black polo runs tight across his chest, the red lines in his collar matching the red laces in his boots. A simple harness crosses over his chest, the hardware gleaming over his pecs. Arthur shivers, remembering the heavy weight of his own harness as Eames had buckled it tight.

“It’s always a special treat to have Mr. Eames with us,” Nadia beams, a regal smile on her face as Eames bows for the crowd.

“That’s the harness guy?” Ariadne hisses, smacking him on the leg. “ _Holy shit_ , Arthur, I am a classically-trained lesbian and even I can tell that guy is fucking gorgeous.”

“I know,” Arthur sighs. This is an excellent, terrible idea.

“Thank you for joining me this evening, and thanks to Mistress Nadia for hosting this lovely soirée, let’s have a round for her,” Eames says, smiling brilliantly as he sweeps his hand toward Nadia. The crowd gives polite applause as Nadia takes an elegant half-bow.

“This evening, I’ll be demonstrating a few simple suspension ties on Kendrick here.”

Eames’s partner is a twinky supermodel with braids down to his back and legs that look like they could wrap around Eames twice. _Of course_ Eames has gorgeous partners.

“I see some familiar faces, and—”

Eames lands on Arthur. There’s a moment where all the air is sucked out of the room, where Arthur couldn’t move even if someone yelled “ _Fire.”_ Eames stares at him, the easy insouciance slipping from his face for a moment as he blinks. Eames is beautiful like this, caught off guard for a moment before his cocky confidence rises back to the surface. Arthur’s lips tingle.

“—some fresh meat. Lovely. Now, this is advanced work, so I assume you all know the basics.” Eames locks eyes with Arthur. “Or you’re fond of getting in over your head.”

Eames is a performer. No one can look away from him as he guides Kendrick into place, flirting and cracking jokes and giving concise technical explanations for each thing he does. The words blur together, _hitches_ and _doubles_ and _hard-ties_ and _darlings_ , Eames’s accent making even the most mundane things sound exciting and new. Arthur can’t take his eyes off Eames’s hands, strong and sure with each increasingly-complex knot, hoisting and pulling until Kendrick is trussed on his side in mid-air, as graceful as a Cirque du Soleil aerialist, one leg dangling elegantly and artfully free, and a look of pure bliss on his beautiful face. 

“Now this is where your job as the top is critical. Suspension is taxing, and if you’re with the right partner, they’ll be floating somewhere in the Milky Way at this point.”

There’s a knowing murmur in the crowd. Kendrick’s smile is lopsided, half-drunk, as Eames strokes his side.

“Don’t trust your bottom to tell you what’s happening. Make sure they’re breathing fully, not just shallowly; check that their hands and feet haven’t gone cold; think about where their blood is pooling while they’re dangling in your clutches.” He looks overhead to the welded steel O-ring to which he’s tethered Kendrick, letting the his body sway gently, side to side, testing the swivel mounted in the frame.

Eames moves the rope like it’s an extension of his hands, smiling for the crowd as he tugs one line free and sends Kendrick spinning. The long lines of Kendrick’s body whirl through the air, lithe in their restraint. He’s perfectly relaxed, his eyes fluttering as he sighs against the ropes. It’s beautiful. Eames slows the rotation and steadies him, kneading at his shoulder. “Kendrick, love, tell the people how you’re feeling.”

 _“Sooo good—”_ Kendrick slurs, to the bemused laughter of the crowd. Eames eases him back onto his feet, easily holding him up even though Kendrick has several inches of height on him. 

Eames’s hand makes small circles over his chest as he slides the ropes free. “Now we’re going to do one of my favorites. A forward-facing suspension with a hogtie.”

With only a look, Kendrick sinks to the floor and lines up his hands behind his back. Of course, he must know exactly what to do. He and Eames probably do this all the time. Eames has probably done this to half the people in this room. 

Arthur’s necktie is tight around his throat.

“Arthur. _Arthur,_ ” Ariadne hisses, jabbing him in the ribs. Arthur startles in his seat, grateful that Eames’s attention is so focused on Kendrick. 

“What?”

“Annie is sitting in the front row.”

“Annie?”

 _“AnnieMorphe?_ Thirst-trap Annie? Catwoman-cosplayer-love-of-my-life Annie?” 

“No way.”

Arthur cranes his neck to look around the man in front of him. The girl in the front row looks familiar, Ariadne’s certainly shown Arthur her pictures frequently enough. Thick brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail, with blunt bangs that hang over her wide eyes. She’s wearing a cropped black turtleneck and tight black pants that would certainly make Selina Kyle proud. She’s rapt, staring at Eames as he binds Kendrick’s arms and legs together behind his back.

“It’s totally her,” Ariadne insists, the panic in her voice making it even higher than usual. “She just moved here from L.A., which I only know from intensive thirst-stalking.”

“Maybe she’s trying to work on her whip technique,” Arthur whispers.

“Maybe she wants to step on my neck,” Ariadne sighs, leaning against him. Arthur smiles.

Eames leads Kendrick through two more poses—the hogtie, and one that has him choosing between hopping on the tip-toes of one foot or bearing all his weight on his arms. Even as he works up a sweat hauling Kendrick to hang in mid-air, Eames remains cool and confident, delivering a steady patter about what knots he’s using and regaling the audience with anecdotes. 

There’s genuine applause when he’s done. Eames accepts it like it’s his due, smiling benevolently before clapping a hand on Kendrick’s shoulder.

“And another hand for my lovely demo-bottom, Kendrick. Now let’s get this man back to his husband before I get myself into any more trouble.”

The crowd breaks up, milling around the stage as Eames gives Kendrick a hug. Kendrick is still smiling like he’s drugged as he slides into another man’s arms, equally as handsome as Kendrick for all that he’s got thirty pounds of solid muscle on him, accepting a deep kiss. Arthur sighs. They probably have some kind of happy, modern, open marriage. Maybe Eames is fucking both of them.

“We can go now,” Arthur says, standing up from his chair and clearing his throat.

“Are you out of your fucking mind? You have to at least say hello to him.” Ariadne tucks her arm in his. “And the closer we get to him, the closer we get to meeting Annie.”

 _“No”_ isn’t high on Ariadne’s vocabulary list when it comes to Arthur. She guides them to the edge of the stage, her face the picture of studied nonchalance as they hover three feet away from Annie and a group of men talking to Eames. 

“I’ll be around if you want any assistance, that hogtie’s a mean one,” Eames says, his smile flicking politely over the crowd until he sees Arthur. Arthur tries to swallow the prickle he feels as Eames turns to him, an incandescent grin on his face.

“Arthur!”

“Nice work up there,” Arthur says, bowling back as Eames envelops him in a huge hug.

“I’m so glad you could make it.” Eames is warm and slightly sweaty, and he smells way too good. Arthur ignores the urge to bury his nose in Eames’s neck and pulls himself back, stepping aside for Ariadne. 

“This is my best friend, Ariadne. Ariadne, this is Mr. Eames.”

 _“Enchanté,”_ Eames coos, kissing the back of her hand. 

“Arthur’s told me so much about you,” she says sweetly, ignoring the death glare Arthur burns into her back. 

Eames beams. _“Has_ he? I’m chuffed. Did you see the harness I made him?”

“Live and in the flesh. He won best duo costume for it,” Ariadne says, genuine pride in her voice. 

“Arthur, you should have told me!” Eames clucks his tongue, a chiding sound that shouldn’t make Arthur’s knees do that. 

“You never sent me a picture,” Eames continues. “I had to go hunting through your Instagram like a damn plebe.”

That’s a picture—Eames sprawled in his bed, one hand down his boxers (he’d call them _pants_ , wouldn’t he?), face lit by his phone as he searched for Arthur in his harness and tiny shorts. Arthur bites the inside of his cheek and looks up at Eames, unable to stop himself from smiling. “You looked for me?”

“Had to see the final product. I wouldn’t object to a private showing,” Eames says, leaning in so close Arthur can feel the heat radiating off his body. Arthur swallows, feeling the room narrow down, until a burst of laughter jolts them all.

It’s Annie, with her head thrown back and her hands clapping together. Ariadne lets out a soft “Oh” that’s as pitiful as it is adorable. Arthur raises his eyebrows at Eames.

“My friend has a crush on that girl over there.” Arthur points his chin at Annie, who’s making sweeping hand gestures as she captivates two men with a story. “She does cosplay, too. Ariadne’s a little obsessed with her.”

 _“Arthur—”_ Ariadne stage-whispers, cheeks turning pink. She looks up at Eames and shrugs. “It’s true. She’s the scary femme-top of my dreams.”

“Annie? I’ve only just met her. But I know Tim over there quite well. Hang on.” Eames strides over to Annie and her companions, all swagger and stage-presence as he double-kisses them and claps one of the men on the back. He accepts compliments on his demonstration graciously before turning the full force of his charm on Annie.

“Annie darling, Tim tells me you’re looking to practice some rope.”

“I am,” Annie says, fluttering her fingers against her chest in a “lucky me” gesture.

“Come, love, let me give you a little lesson. We’ll need a volunteer, who should— _ah!_ Ariadne, be a dear and come meet my friend Annie.” Eames’s eyes light up as he beckons Ariadne over. Arthur follows behind her, trying (and failing) to hide his grin. Arthur’s always considered himself a good wingman, but Eames makes high art out of it.

“Annie, this is Ariadne. I think you two have a lot in common. Ariadne does that fancy-dress thing, what’s it, cosplay?” Eames asks, a gentle hand on Ariadne’s shoulder guiding her closer to Annie.

“You do?” Annie’s huge eyes go wide. “So do I! Who’s your go-to?”

“I do Batgirl, mostly, but I’ve been working on Renee Montoya lately,” Ariadne says, her cheeks two full circles of apple-red. 

“Oh, a DC girl,” Annie purrs, flicking her eyelashes as she takes a step closer to Ariadne. “And I love Montoya.”

“That’s basically the lesbian password,” Arthur whispers to Eames, while Annie talks about her latest Catwoman. Eames’s smile almost splits his face. 

“Oh, I’m not done yet.” Eames clears his throat and pulls two lengths of rope from where they’re hooked into his back pocket. He unwinds them without looking, more of that easy confidence that does things to Arthur’s insides.

“A simple wrist-bind is a good place to start.” Eames cinches his rope in half, drawing it through his hands before handing it to Annie. He smiles at Arthur as he does the same to the second length. “Arthur, be a love and give me your hands.”

Arthur freezes. Ariadne and Eames look at him expectantly. Annie smiles politely.

“I can ask someone else,” Eames says under his breath, a challenge and a polite way out all at once.

“No, I’ll do it,” Arthur says, shaking his head. For Ariadne. Arthur’s fingers go to his cufflinks, just to have Eames tut at him and bat them away. It shouldn’t make Arthur sway on his feet to be chided like he’s a child. Eames is only a few years older than him at most. Eames’s hands are electric as he unclasps Arthur’s cufflinks, sliding them out and slipping them into his own pocket before carefully flat-folding Arthur’s sleeves up his forearms to each elbow. 

“Excellent. Now, Annie, take her hands like this,” Eames demonstrates, bringing Arthur’s hands in front of his waist, palms together, tips of his fingers pointing towards Eames’ stomach. Eames’s hands are warm, his own palms soft as he presses Arthur’s hands together.

“Safety first, I always say. Make sure your sub doesn’t have any injuries or circulation issues.” 

Arthur’s head shouldn’t spin at “your sub.” Arthur barely knows the conventions for all these labels. Hadn’t Eames said “bottom” during the presentation? He’s not Eames’s, any more than Ariadne is Annie’s. It’s just the language. Still, his heart beats so hard he can feel it pressed between his clasped hands. He shakes his head to Eames’s questioning look as Ariadne reassures Annie that she’s “healthy as a big old gay horse.”

“You see how I’ve folded it to half-length here? That’s your bight. It’s the starting point of your tie.”

Here, with Eames’s attention both on him and not, Arthur studies Eames in his element. Every inch of him is relaxed, the bulk of his muscles a solid presence in front of Arthur, from the thighs that could strangle Arthur to the broad flex of his chest underneath his harness. 

“Tell me if anything gets uncomfortable, yeah?” Eames asks, tugging gently as he draws the rope between Arthur’s wrists.

Arthur blows a breath out through his lips. “Uh, yeah. I’m good.”

Eames nods, a smile on his face like he can read Arthur’s mind and doesn’t hate what he sees. Eames is so fucking hot. 

Arthur takes advantage of Eames’s complete attention to the rope and to Annie’s progress to watch Eames’s face. Eames is the kind of handsome Arthur likes best, lush and rugged and dipped in just enough pretty to make Arthur want to rescue him and drop to his knees all at once. Eames’s hands never leave him, keeping at least one finger in contact with him at all times. 

The rope builds around Arthur’s wrists, twisting together in deft little knots that Eames barely has to look at. Eames doesn’t seem to use the formal title, but he’s clearly a master, so easy in his movements that Arthur would let him tie a thousand knots and not worry. 

“Very good,” Eames praises, holding Arthur’s bound wrists in one hand as he looks over at Annie’s work. Arthur shakes himself out of his reverie and looks at Ariadne, who’s grinning like someone just invited her to the DeConnick/Fraction household for Christmas. 

“It’s not every day you get a lesson from Mr. Eames himself,” Annie says, her lips pursed in pleased concentration as she draws her rope over Ariadne’s hands.

Ariadne slides her eyes over to Arthur. “I’ve got friends in low places.”

Arthur blows her an air kiss.

“None for me?” Eames jokes, quiet enough for just Arthur to hear as he twists a last length of rope up and around the cinch between Arthur’s wrists and tugs.

“We finish it off with a loop up like this, yes, that’s it, and tuck it nicely. You’re a natural at this,” Eames says, his voice trained to Annie even as his eyes bore into Arthur. “Now you’ve a nice lead, I’m sure you can think of all sorts of fun to get up to with that.” 

Annie’s grin is wicked as she takes the loose end of the rope and tugs Ariadne closer to her.

“See, a natural.” Eames winks at Arthur.

“Now undo it, Annie, and try again. Careful sliding it off, hemp rope will burn against the skin if you pull it too fast. All my rope’s been washed and treated, of course, so it’s soft as a lamb, but don’t let that fool you.

Arthur waits, watching the careful movement of Annie’s fingers as she releases Ariadne. Eames just stands there, his hands wrapped in the loose ends of Arthur’s rope.

“Too tight?” Eames asks, curling the rope around his knuckles and drawing Arthur closer. Arthur’s fingertips brush against Eames’s front, kissing the soft cotton of his shirt.

Arthur rolls his wrists, testing. He couldn’t get out of it, but he’s not losing circulation. He shakes his head.

“I’m glad you came,” Eames says, the solid plane of his stomach rising and falling against Arthur’s hands. 

“Me too,” Arthur grins, “and thanks for, you know.” He nods at Annie and Ariadne, who are completely focused on one another as Annie re-creates the wrist bind.

“Can I tell you a secret, Arthur?”

Arthur nods, a thrill running through him. The secrets a man like Eames must have.

“I’m a hopeless romantic. I love setting people up. That’s the entirely selfless reason that I found an excuse to tie you up tonight.”

“Eames,” Arthur says, unsure what more he even wants to say. 

“Tell me you don’t like it, and I’ll stop.”

Arthur swallows. He works his hands, stretching against the ropes, tugging against Eames’s hold on him. 

Eames steps in closer, pushing Arthur’s hands down until they’re digging into his own stomach. With one hand, Eames pushes Arthur’s fingers down until his pinkies graze over his dick. He’s half-hard, more than half as Eames maneuvers his hands and makes him grind against himself. Arthur is one live nerve, firing with every breath he takes. 

“Tell me to stop,” Eames whispers, dropping his hands and stepping in closer. He can feel Eames’s cock through his jeans, as hard as Arthur’s. Eames checks his hips forward, a gentle rock, but his lips part and he lets out a breath Arthur can feel. 

Arthur doesn’t say anything.

“Done!” Annie yells, holding Ariadne’s wrists up triumphantly.

“Very good,” Eames says, stepping back from Arthur. Arthur’s hands chase after him, only to be held in place by Eames’s firm grip. “Let’s try it with her hands behind her back.”

Arthur sways on his feet as Eames unloops the ropes from his wrists. Eames massages at Arthur’s skin, rubbing warmth back where Arthur hadn’t missed it. 

Eames spins him around and motions for Annie to do the same. Arthur glances over at Ariadne, who excitedly mouths _“This is awesome!”_ and gives him the smile equivalent of a thumbs-up.

“When we’re working behind the back, it’s easier to have your sub clasp their forearms, like this.” Eames guides him until Arthur’s hands are stacked on top of the opposite forearm, grasping. Eames is close to him, close enough that the air between them crackles every time Eames moves. He weaves the rope back around Arthur’s wrists, calling out instructions to Annie and looping it in quick, deft tucks until Arthur’s arms are bound together. He flexes, testing it, each roll of his muscles against the solid force of Eames’s handiwork raising the drumbeat under his skin. 

Eames finishes it off with the last loop of rope and his lips brushing against Arthur’s ear. “Do you have any idea how good you look like this?”

Arthur closes his eyes, swaying back, sure somehow that Eames will stop him stumbling. Eames’s chest presses against his back, the raised leather of his harness pressing into Arthur’s shoulder blades. Arthur’s thumb slides between them, rubbing circles into Eames’s shirt and hating it suddenly. Skin would be so much better.

“Shame you’re not wearing those little shorts,” Eames murmurs, shifting just enough to let Arthur feel the graze of his cock. Fuck, Arthur’s hard, too, everyone can probably see, and that thought shouldn’t make him buck back against Eames so quickly. Eames chuckles.

“Excellent, Annie, now do it again,” Eames says, as cheerful and easy as he was on stage, like he’s not grinding his cock against Arthur’s ass in plain view of everyone. Arthur can’t stop moving against him.

“I wonder,” Eames purrs, voice low again, “if I reach into those tight trousers, could I get you to make a mess of yourself for me?”

“Eames,” Arthur moans, rolling himself in Eames’s hands, testing his bonds and inching himself closer to Eames all at once. That’s a terrible idea, for so many reasons, important reasons like his dignity and the fact that he’s one quick grope away from blowing his load in his pants like he’s fourteen. 

“No, not tonight,” Eames says softly, before clearing his throat and stepping back. Arthur sways, held in place by Eames’s firm grip on his bound wrists and that alone. He blinks, expecting to find everyone staring at them and finding that no one’s noticed a thing. Annie holds her work out for Eames to inspect, and Ariadne wriggles against it like a happy puppy. Christ, how is Arthur so out of his head with only a few knots around his wrist and Eames whispering in his ear?

“Lovely, Annie,” Eames says, his voice public and paternal even as he slides his palm in between Arthur’s bound hands and his back. Eames’s knuckles slide against the dip in his spine, rubbing gently as he tells Annie to take the tie apart.

Arthur shifts, trying to will his erection away with thoughts of his fifth-grade science teacher and a can of Crisco. His fingertips throb where they’re pressed against his skin. 

“This is way too much fun,” Annie says, threading her rope through her fingers. Ariadne gives Arthur a look that’s all eyebrow over her pinked cheeks. It doesn’t help that Eames takes that moment to slide the ropes off Arthur’s wrists a touch too fast. The woven hemp burns as it pulls against his skin, making Arthur hiss and a tremor run straight up his spine. Two swift flicks of Eames’s hands have Arthur free again.

“Liked that, did you?” Eames asks under his breath, just before he spins Arthur around to face him again.

“Now we’ll do that same double-column around the wrists, like before,” Eames says, joining Arthur’s hands in front of him without even looking. He nods as Annie executes the tie. “Not too tight, we want a little extra give for this one.

Smug shouldn’t look this handsome on anyone. Eames’s confidence could fill the room, his voice rising to the rafters as he whips the ropes around Arthur’s forearms with barely a second glance. 

“Now for the fun part.” Eames grabs the dangling rope ends and winds them around his palm. He guides Arthur’s hands up and over his head, so his elbows point to the ceiling and his bound wrists settle behind his neck. The stretch runs across his chest, spreading his rib cage open and rolling his shoulders back. It’s a vulnerable position, exposing all kinds of spots his Krav Maga instructor would tell him to protect. Eames’s hand settles against his side.

“Watch me, love,” Eames says to Annie. He guides Arthur to turn so Annie can see his back. Eames holds the rope in place between his shoulder blades before bending it to wrap forward around his chest.

“We want to line this up right under the pectoralis muscle or the breasts, depending on your partner’s anatomy.” Eames lays the rope against Arthur’s chest, keeping the doubled length of it flat under his pecs. Heat radiates up to Arthur’s face, sparking into a fire when Eames casually brushes his thumb over Arthur’s nipple. Arthur can’t stop the sharp exhale that rushes out of his nose.

“Hmm.” Eames is close enough for Arthur to feel his hum. He slides the rope around the curve of Arthur’s ribs and tucks it back on itself.

“Do you know how to do a double lark’s head, Annie?"

Arthur’s head hums as Eames explains the knot to Annie. Distantly, Arthur knows he should look at Ariadne, tease her for the schoolgirl-thrill she’s no doubt experiencing as Annie works on her. But being still is so much better, where there’s only the steady pace of his breath as he stretches against Eames’s rope, only the warm surety of Eames’s hands on him, arranging everything just-so.

“You’re flexible,” Eames says, close to his ear. Arthur blinks. He hadn’t realized he'd closed his eyes. 

“Yeah,” breathes Arthur, licking his lips where they’ve gone dry. 

“I’m impressed. Here I was worrying you’d be too stiff for me.” Eames shifts, pressing himself against Arthur’s back and bowing Arthur’s chest out. Arthur’s hips shift forward, stretching the fly of his pants tight. Arthur may be able to bend his elbows all sorts of ways but he’s perfectly stiff elsewhere. 

“I do aerial yoga,” Arthur blurts, his mind supplying the most appropriately-mundane fact he can muster. 

“You mean to tell me you dangle all this from the ceiling without inviting me? That’s cruel, Arthur.” Eames tugs on the ropes at his wrists, pulling them further down his back. It doesn’t _quite_ hurt, not yet, but Arthur grunts softly at the exertion. 

“As you can see,” Eames says, switching to Expert Voice, “This is difficult to maintain. Your sub’s ability to keep this up will depend on their flexibility, their ability to endure pain, and their desire to please you.”

“I possess a bottomless need for external validation,” Ariadne helpfully pipes up. She grins at Arthur, cheeks flushed and her eyes a touch manic. Her arms aren’t as far back as Arthur’s. 

Arthur blinks and takes a deep breath. It’s ridiculous, it’s not like this is a _competition_. 

“You’re pleasing me very much right now,” Eames whispers in his ear, and suddenly Arthur knows he would (gently, lovingly, compassionately) kick Ariadne’s feet out from under her if it meant winning. 

Eames’s hands run up Arthur’s sides to grip his upper arms, squeezing the muscles of his triceps. 

“Aerial yoga,” Eames muses, circling to Arthur’s biceps. His fingers slide into the tight space where Arthur’s arms are bent in half. “I’d love to see you fly.” 

Arthur’s head tilts back into the cradle of his own forearms. He turns his head to let Eames’s fingers graze against his cheek. 

“How long would you hold this for me, dear Arthur?” Eames’s voice comes out soft and rough around the edges near Arthur’s ear. Eames’s thumb drags down his cheek, leaving a hot stripe in its wake. 

Sweat prickles under Arthur’s shirt collar. Eames is so close to him. He smells delicious, salt-sweat and heat pressed to Arthur’s back, hands threading possessively into Arthur’s bent arms like he knows just how far he can push Arthur’s body before it breaks. Arthur sways, his center of gravity adjusting to every breath Eames takes. He fights to keep his eyes open. 

“My God, you are lovely,” Eames whispers, curling his hand to slide behind Arthur’s wrists. It closes over the nape of Arthur’s neck, squeezing. Arthur’s breath shudders out of him. 

“This is getting ouchy,” Ariadne says, her voice piercing the cotton-wool in his head. Arthur forces his eyes back into focus and glances at her. She’s grimacing and wriggling against a delighted Annie. Arthur freezes when Eames steps away from him. 

“Yes, let’s set them free, shall we?” Eames says to Annie.

Arthur swallows the _No!_ that tries to gallop past his lips. His throat is thick as Eames slides the ropes around his chest free. Sensation floods back into his arms, shooting from his shoulders down to his fingers. Arthur flexes his wrists when Eames unwinds the rope from them. There’s a faint, braided pattern pressed into his skin. 

“That’ll fade soon,” Eames notes, grabbing Arthur’s hands in his own and massaging the meat of Arthur’s palms. Prickles of sensation spread over his skin. Eames’s hands are so warm. 

“Oh,” Arthur says, lamely, beyond pretending he knows how any of this goes but hoping his disappointment doesn’t play too hard across his face. That’s better, of course, to go home without any reminders of Eames’s skill on his body. Better that it will fade. 

“Annie, make sure your girl is doing all right,” Eames says, glancing pointedly at where he’s rubbing at Arthur’s wrists. 

“I am _excellent_ ,” Ariadne says, stuffing ten pounds of giddy into the last word. Arthur must look a sight, if her equally thrilled and stunned expression when he smiles at her is any indication. 

“Let’s get a drink,” Ariadne says to Annie, before giving Arthur the least-sly wink in the history of facial expressions. She gives Annie her hand and waves to Arthur as she’s genteelly dragged to the bar. Arthur’s smile goes full dimple despite himself. 

“If she doesn’t leave here with at least a phone number, it’s no one’s fault but her own,” Eames says, his fingers moving in tight circles up Arthur’s forearms. Does this usually feel so good? Arthur’s whole body melts as Eames digs his thumb into the divoted tendon just below Arthur’s rolled sleeve. 

“Thank you. For setting them up.” Arthur’s breath catches on the last word, as Eames does something brilliant to a spot just below his elbow. 

Eames hums, one eyebrow arching. “Some people are just naturals at this kind of thing.” His hands close over Arthur’s upper arms. The pressure feels good, but it also feels like it would take Arthur more than a passing shrug to throw it off. 

“You can always see it in the eyes,” Eames says, looking directly at him while the remaining blood in Arthur’s body rushes in his ears. Eames is gorgeous, objectively so, especially up close where Arthur can see the seaglass depths of his eyes and the hypnotizing swell of his lips. He’s ruddy and flushed but it only makes him look more handsome, only half-tame among the overdressed and self-conscious crowd milling around them. 

Arthur jumps when his back hits something cool and metal. He hadn’t even noticed Eames walking him backwards across the room. 

Eames has him backed up against a huge cage, more wrought iron by the looks of it. It must weigh a ton, although it’s bolted to the wall as if someone would try to move it. There’s a lock on the frame of the door, although Eames shows no sign of going for it. He has a Cheshire smile as he regards Arthur, eyeing him up and down. 

Heat burns on Arthur’s cheeks. His skin pulses where Eames still has him by the arms. The buzz of the party around them fades to a dull hum, background noise to the sound of his own breath and the slow, measured way Eames licks his lips. 

He squeezes Arthur’s arms before loosening his grip on one of them. There’s no time for Arthur to mourn its absence as Eames spins him around to face the cage bars. Eames is large and warm where he presses against Arthur’s back, but it’s comforting more than anything. The leather of Eames’s harness presses against his shoulder blades, a firm pressure as it rises and falls with Eames’s breath. 

The hair on Arthur’s neck prickles as Eames slides his hands down Arthur’s arms. He lays his palms over the tops of Arthur’s hands and guides him to hold one of the horizontal bars of the cage, about waist high. The metal is warmer under his hands than he expects, but it’s freezing compared to the heat Eames is radiating into him. Eames curls his hands, taking Arthur’s fingers with him until Arthur is gripping the metal. 

“Are you thirsty, Arthur?” Eames’s breath tickles against his ear. Arthur licks his lips, finding them warm and dry. 

“A little,” Arthur nods. He turns, minutely, hoping Eames’s lips will graze his ear or find some part of his face. 

“I’m going to get you some water.” Eames presses his hands over Arthur’s before drawing them back. His fingertips drag softly over Arthur’s forearms, leaving a wave of goosebumps in their wake. “Stay here until I get back.” Eames’s voice rolls over him, deep and rich where he’s so close to Arthur’s skin.

Arthur nods. It isn’t a question. 

He shudders as Eames pulls away from him, starkly aware of how hot he is. There’s sweat tickling at the small of his back, sticking his undershirt to his skin. The small hairs at the base of his neck are damp. Waves of hot and cold rush over him, an alternating current that leaves him shivering. 

Arthur could leave. There’s nothing keeping him here, standing with his hands clenched on an empty cage while Eames flirts his way to the bar. He can’t hear Eames’s voice, just the susurrus of party chatter punctuated by the occasional laugh or sharp slap. Arthur swallows, his throat suddenly parched.

Arthur has always been a fidgeter. He chews his pens, taps his fingers, tilts his chairs back until his teachers yell at him. He’s mastered it more as he’s gotten older, but moments of true stillness are few and far between for him. It’s one of his favorite parts of his yoga classes, how he’s finally, _finally_ so bone-tired from suspending himself from the silks that he sinks into the floor for _savasana_ , the final resting pose. That same heavy blanket of calm settles over him now. Arthur could move, sure, but it’s the last thing he wants to do. 

“Good boy.” It’s like Eames can turn all that muscle into liquid as he settles against Arthur’s back. Arthur shivers, a rush spreading from the back of his neck to his fingertips. He doesn’t move from his hold on the bars as Eames snakes one arm around him. 

“Drink.”

Eames presses a water bottle to Arthur’s lips, tilting his head back to cradle it in Eames’s other hand. Cool water floods his mouth, nothing compared to the flood of needy pleasure that sinks into Arthur’s stomach and washes out over his skin as he leans against Eames. 

Arthur swallows. He barely knows Eames, he certainly shouldn’t trust him to pour water down his throat. But Arthur’s lips part, and he knows Eames will give him what he needs. 

Arthur’s finished half the bottle when Eames eases it away from his mouth. Arthur is buoyant, his mouth wet and his nerves rocking on an ocean of strange calm as Eames runs his fingers down Arthur’s arms. The marks on his wrists have already faded to the faintest pink. 

“Thank you,” Arthur says. He licks his lips and rolls his shoulders, testing the warm press of Eames all around him. Eames hums against his back. 

“You did well,” Eames says, sliding his hand to settle over the front of Arthur’s chest. Eames’s palm presses into Arthur’s tie pin, a single starburst of pain that flares up and makes Arthur hiss through his teeth. “I think you’d do even better if I gave you the chance.”

Before Arthur can embarrass himself with _God, yes, I’d be perfect for you_ , Eames wraps his fingers around Arthur’s tie. In what Arthur’s body instinctively recognizes as an order, Eames tugs until Arthur releases his grip on the cage bars and spins around to face Eames. Eames unclasps his tie pin and twists his hand until Arthur’s tie is wrapped around his knuckles, a lead he uses to pull Arthur closer. 

Arthur’s breath is unsteady, reflecting off Eames’s face. He’s so close, looming in Arthur’s vision, the soft pressure of his hold on Arthur’s tie singing around Arthur’s neck. _Like a collar_ , Arthur thinks, just before Eames backs him up against the cage and runs the heart-skipping swell of his lips up the shell of Arthur’s ear. 

“Arthur. I’m going to kiss you now.”

Arthur leans his head back, showing the tender skin under his jaw and letting his body speak in surrender even if the words catch in his throat.

Eames makes a hungry sound in his chest, a growl that curls Arthur’s toes and throbs between his legs. The bars of the cage press into his back, a lattice work that burns cool through his shirt. Eames is everywhere, crowding into Arthur’s space until he can barely breathe, one big hand cupping Arthur’s face as he drags open-mouthed up the column of Arthur’s neck. Arthur’s shivering by the time Eames sucks the swell of Arthur’s bottom lip between his teeth. Eames kisses the way he ties—easy, masterful, devastating. Arthur opens for him, every muscle in his body going slack against the syrup-thick heartbeat pounding in his throat. 

Eames kisses with his whole body. His hands roam everywhere, raking carelessly through Arthur’s hair and closing over the nape of his neck, legs angling around Arthur’s with the promise of strength and the steady rhythm of their bodies grinding together. Eames hums and sighs and makes a dozen sounds that resonate so quickly southward that Arthur’s dizzy every time he comes up for air. He bites at Arthur’s lip and sucks on his tongue, obscene, just to hold Arthur’s face in his hands and press their lips together like they’re standing at an altar instead of a shady corner of a Midtown sex dungeon. 

The world fades until there’s nothing but the press of Eames’s lips to his. Even the sinuous descent of Eames’s hand down his back doesn’t register until Eames knots his hand back in Arthur’s tie and tugs. 

“Tell me to stop.” Eames’s eyes burn into his, wide and wild as he trails his hand over the leather of Arthur’s belt, skating past the crisp lines of Arthur’s back pocket. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

For a moment, all Arthur can think is how perfectly his ass fits in Eames’s hand, how broad his palm is over the marked swell of what Arthur knows is one of his best features. Arthur’s breath is unsteady against Eames’s lips, hitching when Eames digs his fingers in and kneads at him. 

Arthur’s hips kick forward of their own accord, writhing in Eames’s grip. Somewhere between the rope demo and here, Eames has stolen the cheat codes to Arthur’s neck. His lips find every sensitive spot, nipping and sucking under Arthur’s offered jaw. Every inch of Arthur purrs, cat-stretched and eager as he leans his head back. Just blinking is a monumental effort, buoyed only by the promise of Eames’s face. 

Strangers limn the periphery of Arthur’s vision as he blinks his eyes open. At a respectful distance, people cluster, cocktails clutched in their hands and their eyes glittering in the half-light. Even blocked out by the bulk of Eames’s body, Arthur is suddenly, keenly aware of the spectacle he’s caught in. At the edge of the crowd, Kendrick smiles at him.

“Eames. Eames, wait.” What the fuck is Arthur doing? He uncurls his hands from their clasp on Eames’s shoulders.

Eames lets out a tight breath through his nose. His hand flexes from its hold on Arthur’s tie before he drops it. 

“Are you all right?” Eames’s hands settle on his elbows. His touch is gentle, his face etched with concern. Arthur swallows, his throat tight. 

“Yeah, I… I just need to go to the bathroom.”

Eames looks back over his shoulder and frowns at the crowd. “If you want to go somewhere more private—”

“No, I—” Arthur rolls out of Eames’s hands. He takes a deep breath and slides his tie back into place, feeling blindly for the silk knot. Their crowd of spectators has turned away, but Arthur’s cheeks burn as he fumbles to reattach his tie-pin to his shirt. He’s all rumpled. “I’m sorry, I’ll be right back.”

The restroom is down a hallway. Arthur would normally appreciate the Nan Goldin prints lining the walls, but right now he can’t be alone fast enough. He slams the door behind him and grips the sink, letting the cool porcelain ease into the sweaty heat of his palms. When his breathing has leveled off, he squints in the mirror. 

The bathroom is beautiful, even if he pointedly ignores the suspicious nozzles dangling from the walk-in shower to his left. White tile and polished chrome gleam around him, all the better to highlight what a mess Arthur is. Cheeks pinked and his hair raked asunder, he’s looked less disheveled after full-on sex. Arthur fixes his hair as best he can and goes to straighten his sleeves. 

“ _Fuck_.”

Eames still has his cufflinks. 

Arthur fixes the fold of his cuffs before his hand strays to his wrist. He squeezes, his eyes falling shut. It’s nothing like the knowing press of Eames’s ropes, or the easy strength of his body afterwards. Arthur bites his lip. Eames feels like the kind of good that only leads to bad things. 

Arthur slides his tie back into its firm Windsor and heads back to the party. He can make it out and text Ariadne after, she’ll understand and bring his coat and—

“Arthur!” Ariadne peels away from a cluster of people and skips over to him. She looks like she’s going to vibrate out of her skin. 

“Annie wants us to come for drinks with her friends,” Ariadne says, rocking up on her tip-toes like she always does when she’s excited. “You have to come.”

Arthur’s head is still spinning. He forces a smile onto his face as she tugs at his arm. “Sure, that sounds great,” Arthur says, swallowing where his throat has gone dry. 

“God, Arthur, she’s so scary and she smells so good and I think I want to have her babies,” Ariadne gushes. 

“Someone’s having fun,” says a voice behind him. Arthur could bolt for cover or melt into a puddle on the floor, it’s anyone’s guess at this point. 

“Eames!” Ariadne surges past Arthur and gives Eames one of her huge hugs. “Thank you for setting me up, you are the fucking _best_.” 

“Your friend has excellent taste, Arthur,” Eames says, smiling down at Ariadne. 

“Annie wants us to get drinks at some K-town bar. Can you come, Eames?” Ariadne blithely ignores the abject deer-in-headlights look Arthur gives her. 

“Nadia will have my guts for garters if I leave early, darling. Shame, too, I’d do terrible things for a pint and some japchae right now.” Eames pats a hand over his stomach, like he’s only a bit peckish after unraveling Arthur into a dozen ragged threads.

“Aww, okay. Another time,” Ariadne says. 

“Absolutely. You can tell me about every unsavory thing you two get up to and I’ll gladly take all the credit,” Eames offers. His hand is huge on Ariadne’s shoulder. “Petal, would you give me a minute with Arthur?”

Ariadne, possessed of neither shame nor tact, grins up at Eames. “Oh, Arthur can last longer than a minute.” She doesn’t stay to witness the daggers Arthur shoots at her as she leaves. 

“Well--”

“You still have my cufflinks,” Arthur says, staring down at Eames’s boots. 

“Do I?” Eames tilts his head and slides a hand into his pocket. His pants are so tight Arthur can see the outline of his knuckles. 

“What happened back there?” Eames holds Arthur’s cufflinks in his palm just to snatch them back when Arthur reaches for them. “Seemed like you were having a lovely time.”

“Lovely,” Arthur repeats, sniffing. Part of him is still backed up against that cage, half-drunk on Eames’s hands all over him. He can still feel the crowd watching them, enjoying the spectacle of Eames playing with his latest conquest. 

“So you didn’t enjoy a second of that?” Eames says, droll, fist still clutched around Arthur’s cufflinks. 

“I did. Really. I liked that a lot more than I would have thought. I just… what are we doing here, Eames?” 

“Getting to know one another?” Eames keeps his fist curled tight, even as he steps in closer to Arthur. “I’d like to get to know you a lot better, Arthur. Preferably somewhere sound-proof.”

That same rush floods past Arthur’s good sense. Weak in the knees has always seemed hyperbolic as far as expressions go, but Arthur’s are two seconds from buckling. He takes a deep breath, reminding himself that the easy falls can hurt the most. “Eames. I… This isn’t me. I don’t know how to do any of this. I don’t know where I’d fit into… all of _this_.” He gestures, vaguely, as a couple in matching thigh-high boots stroll past.

“Look at me,” Eames says. “Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t feel anything special earlier.”

Eames has beautiful eyes. Arthur opens his mouth, useless, terrified of the frank blue-gray staring back at him. _You could break my heart_. 

“Of course I did,” Arthur acknowledges softly. That’s the problem. An average Tuesday for Eames is something extraordinary for Arthur.

Eames hums and turns his hand over, shaking Arthur’s cufflinks like a set of dice. 

“May I?” Eames holds one cufflink in his fingers like he’s just done a magic trick. Arthur snorts, unable to resist Eames’s crooked grin. Arthur slides his sleeves down and finds himself holding his wrists out to Eames once again. 

Eames pinches Arthur’s cuff and tugs it straight. “I don’t care if you’ve never done _all of this_ ,” Eames says, putting on a poor imitation of Arthur’s accent. “I don’t care if you’re a bloody virgin.” He slides the metal bar of Arthur’s cufflink through the fabric. “And if you think your naïveté doesn’t make you even more attractive, you’ve no idea how a dom thinks.”

Eames runs his fingers over the crease of Arthur’s cuff, pinching it sharp. Every hair on Arthur’s body stands on end, tingling with the pleasure of being dressed and fussed over. 

In Eames’s steady hands, the point of his cufflink spears through the stitched buttonhole. “If you’re not interested in me, I’m not going to chase you. But I’m never wrong about these things. You want me, Arthur, you want more than my rope around your wrists and you know it.”

The audacity that he could think he’s never wrong, and the outrage that he’s right. Eames drops Arthur’s wrist and moves to the other. His fingers burn against Arthur’s skin. He grabs Arthur’s cuff, tight enough to send shocks up Arthur’s arm. 

“I want you, Arthur. I want to root out every repressed fantasy lurking inside you and show you how much better it is in real life. I want to sink my teeth into you and taste how beautiful you are on the inside.”

Eames steps in closer, twisting Arthur’s sleeve until his hand is trapped between their chests. 

Arthur’s heart is pounding in his ears. Eames is close enough to kiss, to drown in. Arthur shakes his head and steels himself. “Look, you are so fucking hot I want to drag you back to my apartment and introduce you to every flat surface I own, but I don’t do... casual. I can’t. I know that some people can have lots of partners and be fine with it, and that’s okay, I’m not judging you for it, but I—”

“How do you know I have lots of partners?” Eames asks, his voice level. He gentles his hold on Arthur’s wrist, easing some space between them as he finishes Arthur’s other cuff. They’re perfect when he’s done. 

“Of course you do,” says Arthur, blinking. “Kendrick? Yusuf? All your, you know, subs.” Arthur waves his hand around the room, certain the general arc of his wrist will catch at least ten people Eames has fucked.

“Kendrick is a dear friend, who graciously did me a favor when I needed a demo bottom. Did you miss the part where his husband swept him up in his arms?” 

“I don’t know, maybe you’re dating both of them,” Arthur says, and fuck, he sounds pouty and childish even to himself. 

Eames snorts. “I’m flattered, love, but you’re giving me far more credit than I’m due. And Yusuf, dear God, are you mad? We’ve been best mates since we were teenagers, but that’s all. He’s mostly straight, poor thing, and the boys he does go for are much prettier than I am.”

“That’s hard to imagine,” Arthur retorts, glancing down at Eames’s mouth. How could anyone have Eames within arm’s reach and not be all over him? “You’re single? For real?”

He’s rewarded with that same pursed grin. “I’m not seeing anyone at the moment, Arthur, not seriously, if that’s what you wanted to know. Are you?”

“No. Not big on casual, remember?” Arthur says. He bites his lip, tries to ground himself where the room wants to spin. 

“There’s nothing casual about what I want to do to you, Arthur.” Eames rakes his eyes over Arthur, the full force of his attention washing over Arthur in a wave. Eames straightens Arthur’s tie with an easy propriety, nodding as if he’s finally assembled Arthur back correctly. “So let’s not be casual. I’ll take you on a proper date. Someplace respectable, you know, with fewer cages and better wine.”

“ _Fewer_ cages?” 

“Well, I can’t take you anywhere too pedestrian, can I?” Eames scoffs.

“I’d like to see your idea of pedestrian,” Arthur muses. He tries to clamp down the huge smile spreading over his face, but he feels it blooming over him as Eames rests one hand on the wall beside Arthur.

“I’d like to see you naked and strung up from my ceiling.” Eames leans in until Arthur can smell the leather and sweat on him, the pomade he uses in his hair. 

“All right,” Arthur says. Eames’s eyes widen and his eyebrows rise. 

“You can take me to dinner. The rest is… negotiable.” Arthur kisses Eames’s pleased smile right off his face. He hooks his hand into a strap of Eames’s harness and tugs him close, molding himself to Eames’s front. Eames kisses him deep, cupping a hand behind Arthur’s neck and squeezing possessively. Arthur could do this all night.

“Told you he’s not a minute man.” Ariadne is grinning and holding both their coats when Arthur glowers at her over Eames’s shoulder. Annie looms behind her, a sleek black line against Ariadne’s patchwork color. He’d have a stunning rebuke at the ready if he weren’t so distracted by Eames’s sudden interest in his left earlobe. 

“You sure you don’t want to meet us at the bar, Arthur?” Annie asks, tugging the belt of her black trench coat tight around her waist. Ariadne gives him a pleading look as she throws her own coat on. 

“He’s coming,” Eames rumbles, giving Arthur a soft, intimate kiss on the forehead before releasing him to face Ariadne. 

“Always lovely to see you, Ariadne,” Eames says, chivalrously taking her hand and kissing it before doing the same to Annie. “And you. You have potential, my dear. You should come round to mine, maybe talk about an apprenticeship?” 

Annie’s eyes reach truly notice-me-Senpai proportions. “I would love that.”

Patting at his pockets, Eames makes an exaggerated frown, which does illegal things to his lower lip. “I don’t know where I’ve left my phone. Give Ariadne your number and she’ll make sure I get it, yeah?”

Eames winks at Arthur as Annie types her number into Ariadne’s phone. A surge of affection sweeps over Arthur. Eames is thoughtful, and charming, and his arm is warm when it settles over Arthur’s shoulders. Eames wants to take him on a _date_. “I’ll see you Thursday. I’ll tell you where tomorrow.”

That knowing command in Eames’s speech should grate against Arthur, who has brought home a dozen report cards with “oppositional” printed in neat teacher-script. It shouldn’t light up a whisky-bloom in Arthur’s chest like this. Eames kisses his cheek and rubs his hand between Arthur’s shoulder blades before letting him go. 

Aware that Ariadne’s patience is running thin, Arthur nods and gives Eames one last kiss, hoping it’s enough to tide him over until Thursday. 

“I had a good time,” Arthur murmurs, smiling against Eames’s lips. Eames hums in his throat and snakes his hands down to Arthur’s wrists. He squeezes, just hard enough to make Arthur’s eyelids flutter shut. He’s free in a moment. 

“I know.” Eames grins wolfishly at the off-kilter blink of Arthur’s eyes. “I’m glad you came, Arthur.”

Arthur takes his coat from Ariadne in a daze, watching Eames saunter down the hall and back to the party. 

~

 _I have homework for you_ is the second text Arthur gets from Eames the next day, the first having stated a restaurant downtown and a time. 

_Do I get a grade?_ Arthur responds, chewing on his lip.

 _Teacher’s pet_ Eames answers quickly. Another message bubbles up immediately. 

It’s a link to a form, with space for check-marks and write-in answers. Arthur pushes away from his desk as he scrolls through it, his cheeks going from pink to ripe cherry by the time he reaches “fisting, receiving.”

_What happened to buying a guy dinner first?_

_Print it and bring it with you_ , Eames answers, ignoring Arthur’s jab. 

The pages are warm from his printer as Arthur holds them in his hand. He taps his pen against some unfamiliar words, arches an eyebrow at a few that aren’t so foreign. Spanking. Choking. Blindfolds. Face-fucking. What the fuck is bastinado?

Arthur opens an incognito tab on his browser and loses himself in the familiar limbo of research. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Some tumblr beauty!](https://saltandbyrne.tumblr.com/post/616300853739028480/mr-eames-and-the-boy-wonder-chapter-3-up-now)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s only pure luck that Eames is able to find a restaurant with a birdcage hanging from the ceiling. Still, he hopes Arthur will appreciate it.

It’s only pure luck that Eames is able to find a restaurant with a birdcage hanging from the ceiling. Still, he hopes Arthur will appreciate it. 

In the red light washing out from the chinoiserie interior of the restaurant, Eames thumbs through his worn paperback of Patti Smith’s _Just Kids_. “Never go anywhere without a book” and “always save room for dessert” are the best pieces of advice his mum had given him growing up. He looks up every few lines, glancing down Church Street for Arthur’s lean figure.

It’s not that Eames is nervous. Still, he’s been obsessively, dick-strippingly haunted by Arthur ever since that night at Nadia’s. Eames has hooked up with lots of pretty boys at lots of pretty parties, but he can’t remember the last time anyone had left him as delightfully off-kilter as Arthur. 

He’d spent far too long trying to pick a place, somewhere well-starred but just enough off the beaten path to keep Arthur from being bored. Fusion is overdone as a whole, but the Macao theme of the place makes it natural, and they have an excellent wine list. Eames is just at the bit about Mapplethorpe’s first show when there’s a rustle at his left elbow.

“You’re early.” Arthur smiles as Eames turns to him. Arthur shouldn’t be that good at sneaking up on people. Eames sneaks a kiss of his own, a quick thing that catches the tail end of Arthur’s smile.

“Wanted to finish this chapter,” Eames says, holding up his book before slipping his gum-wrapper bookmark in place. Eames will gladly wreak havoc on willing subjects but he doesn't dog-ear his pages. He’s not a monster. 

“I love this book.” Arthur smiles and traces his finger down the spine. Arthur has beautiful hands, long and delicate, manicured but still strong. That could describe all of Arthur, as lovely as Eames had hoped in a smart dove grey suit and oxblood tie. His wingtips are so polished they shine in the dim glow of the streetlights. Eames licks his lips. 

“You know, I used to dream about moving to the Chelsea Hotel, just like Mapplethorpe.”

“I think he’d still be proud of you,” Arthur muses, flashing the full dimples of his smile as he lets Eames hold the door for him.

“I do try.” Eames follows Arthur into the colorful din of the restaurant. 

The decor looks like something out of an especially pleasant fever dream, a Rococo mix of fetishistic Orientalism and Roaring Twenties excess. Huge paper lanterns dangle from the ceiling, with trailing red tassels and gentle Edison bulbs gleaming alongside them. There’s a horror vacui to the whole place, with no surface left unembellished. Lurid cockfighting advertisements and peepshow posters are plastered over brocade wallpaper, with an army of mismatched sconces standing the line above the long rows of tables. Candlelight flickers everywhere. The whole place looks like it’s one heady sneeze from going up in a riot of flames and glitter. It’s perfect.

“Fewer cages,” Arthur mutters, looking up at the massive rattan cockscage strung from the ceiling. The red lights gleam off his hair, shining slick and dark. 

“This way, Mr. Eames,” their hostess says. She leads them to a table in the corner, dimly-lit and small enough that their knees nearly touch when they sit. Arthur settles across from him, popping the button on his suit jacket with a practiced ease that makes Eames hungry for more than a pork bun.

“Have you ever been to Macao, Arthur?” Eames hands him a menu.

“No, have you?”

“Twice,” Eames says, flipping his menu open and leaning back in his chair. “It’s a city for pirates and gamblers and whores, it’s divine.”

Arthur smiles up from his wine list. “People tell me I’d like Shanghai.”

“Yes, you would.” Shanghai is elegant and aloof, and Eames has always had a good time when he’s visited.

“A bottle of the Albariño?” Arthur suggests, surprising Eames only in that he’s chosen one of the least expensive wines on the list. It’s what Eames himself would have picked if he wasn’t trying to impress anyone. “And why don’t you order food for us?” Arthur adds, closing his menu and sliding it over to Eames. “Surprise me.”

Eames doesn’t speak proper Portuguese, and his Cantonese is limited to food and some colorful curse words, but he’s always been a good mimic for accents. Arthur gives him an impressed nod as he rattles off half a dozen dishes. It’s far too much food, but Eames can’t resist a shared plate. Their waitress leaves the wine list and refills Arthur’s sparkling water.

“That shirt is hideous, I love it,” Arthur marvels, gesturing with his water glass at Eames’s plaid oxford. It’s a Frankenstein’s Monster of tartans, blue and red and green all top-stitched and finished off with a huge crown logo spray-painted across the back.

“It’s _Westwood_ ,” Eames says, pulling his best wounded face. It’s one of his best. He’d gotten it at a sample sale on his last trip back home.

“Of course it is,” Arthur nods, before the waitress brings their wine and lets Arthur have the first taste. It meets his approval, and soon they’re clinking to Eames’s impromptu toast of proper first dates and men in tights.

Everyone has a “Coming to New York” story, and they share theirs over a glass of Arthur’s choice wine. Eames’s persistent itch to live in the city that birthed the Ramones and the Hellfire club, and Arthur’s childhood daydreams of roaming the streets of Gotham.

“Everyone knows Gotham is based on New York,” Arthur points out.

“I just finished Knightfall,” Eames says, pausing to smile beatifically at their waitress as she deposits a plate of egg tarts and pork chop buns in front of them. “I like that Bane fellow.”

“I thought you would,” Arthur replies, taking a dainty bite of the steamed bun Eames puts on his plate.

“The whole thing is such an exercise in hypermasculinity. Bane is like the logical end-game of toxic machismo,” Eames says around a mouthful of perfectly-succulent pork.

“Yeah, even Batman has that, right? Like, here’s a guy who’s been through so much trauma, and instead of dealing with any of it, it just festers into this endless cycle of violence and isolation.” Arthur takes a sip of his wine and gives Eames a level stare over the rim of his glass. “And it still kind of makes me want to suck his dick.”

Eames deserves a medal for swallowing his food without injury. “Yes, we always want the things that hurt us.”

“Is that why you dress like a skinhead?” Arthur asks, refilling both of their wine glasses with a neat tuck of his wrist.

“Perceptive, Arthur, very perceptive,” Eames says. He pops a piece of egg tart into his mouth. “Nothing delights me more than the horror some National Front bastard would feel if he saw me bending you over a table and eating your arse until you cry.” It’s too dark to see if he’s made Arthur blush, but he can hope. “And my arse looks fantastic in tight jeans, what can I say?”

Arthur laughs, full and light in the ruby glow from the lanterns, and it’s easy after that, to pick at their shared plates of _minchee_ and _galinha à Africana_ and charred octopus as their conversation meanders from fashion to art to film to Arthur’s dull-sounding work as a bookkeeper and his less-dull work making plate armor out of EVA foam. Arthur’s fascinating and smart and easy to talk to. Eames could eat a hundred dinners with him without getting bored.

The waitress brings their last dish, a sky-high _serradura_ with cream as light as a cloud. As engaging as Arthur’s conversation is, Eames is ready for dessert.

“Have you done your homework, Arthur?”

There it is, the quick widening of Arthur’s eyes, the tick in his jaw. He nods and reaches into an inside pocket of his jacket to produce a neatly-folded set of papers.

Eames takes them, only wishing he had a red pen in hand to make Arthur squirm that much more. He takes a flickering votive candle and holds it by the pages, squinting in the dim light.

“I wasn’t sure—”

“Be a lamb and eat your sweets,” Eames says, pointedly not looking at Arthur as he scans the neatly-ticked boxes. There are some pleasant surprises under “interested in”—breathplay, sensory deprivation, cockwarming, _excellent_ —and some unexpected ones that make Eames shift in his seat. Arthur hasn’t eaten much, but he clearly saves his appetite for other things. Like the tumblers of a lock clicking into place, Eames crafts a dozen scenes he could drop Arthur into, a hundred things he could test and prod and poke until Arthur unfurls at his feet.

“Very good, Arthur,” Eames says, tucking the papers into his back pocket and leaning forward onto his elbows. “Now, tell me the first three things from that list you need me to do to you. Don’t think about it, just spit it out.”

Arthur swallows his mouthful of whipped cream. “Bondage, um, spanking?” Arthur’s eyes dart around the room, like anyone could hear him with the way he’s whispering. 

“And?”

Arthur closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “A blindfold.”

“Tell me how it would go,” Eames purrs, letting a drop of command slide into his voice. 

Arthur licks his lips and inches closer. “You’d tie me up, I don’t know, maybe tie my hands behind my back? Something I couldn’t get out of. And then, cover my eyes. So I couldn’t see what you were doing.”

That visual alone has Eames’s head swimming. Arthur with one of Eames’s leather blindfolds covering his eyes, his lips parted as he waits for any sign of movement from Eames. Naked except for Eames’s rope around him, rocking onto his tip-toes at the slightest rush of air against his skin.

“And then you spank me. With your hand.” Arthur clears his throat.

“And why are you getting a spanking, Arthur? Have you been bad?”

“No. I mean, I guess I sort of have been, but that’s not what you say to me. It’s… it’s because you know I want it. Know I need it.”

Eames’s hand curls into itself, digging his fingernails into the meat of his palm. Eames can play Disappointed Headmaster all day, but this is infinitely better, giving Arthur what he needs, what he’s been brave enough to ask for.

“I’d want you over my knee,” Eames says, watching the cat-slit of Arthur’s eyes at the suggestion.

“Yes,” Arthur replies in a rush, nodding. “So I could feel you against me, when I move. When you hit me.”

 _Christ_. Eames drains the last of his wine. “Have you thought of a safeword?”

Arthur smiles. “Pennyworth.”

“I get that reference,” Eames says, stealing Arthur’s spoon from him and taking a bite of dessert for himself. Arthur stares at his mouth, a familiar sensation for Eames. The hunger in Arthur’s eyes is something new. Arthur needs restraint, needs so many things Eames can give him.

Eames takes another bite of the _serradura_ , licking the spoon clean while Arthur stares at him. Eames is hungry, too. He wants to memorize every inch of Arthur’s mouth, to sing a symphony into the bandshell of his ear, to scale the hillock of his Adam’s apple. _Fuck it._ “Go to the loo.”

“Oh, I don’t need to, I can—”

“Arthur. Go to the loo.” Eames stares at him, unblinking, until Arthur’s eyes widen. “Now.”

Arthur’s mouth opens and closes. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. It’s impressive, the elegance with which he gets up, buttons his jacket back up, moves his body so only Eames can tell he’s half-hard in those tailored trousers. He gives Eames a look before disappearing down the long row of tables to the other side of the restaurant.

Eames pays their check and waits two minutes, every second of which is agonizingly slow. Eames’s loft is a moderate cab-ride from here, but the thought of waiting another minute to touch Arthur is intolerable. _Absurd_ , even, to deny Arthur. 

Arthur’s standing at the sink when Eames walks in. The bathroom is as overdone as the rest of the place, with a larger-than-life mural of a pin-up girl tugging open her cheongsam and winking at them. There’s a row of urinals and two stalls, painted a vivid red. Eames grabs Arthur by the wrist and drags him into the first one.

There’s just enough space for them as Eames backs Arthur up against one of the flimsy walls. He manages to latch the door shut before finding Arthur’s mouth waiting and open, and kisses him roughly. Arthur’s hands roam all over him, kneading at Eames’s muscled back and sighing when Eames nips behind his ear. Arthur opens his own jacket and reaches for Eames’s belt, blindly, fumbling with the buckle and hissing when his finger catches on the zipper.

“Shh, let me,” Eames whispers, easily undoing himself with one hand before tugging Arthur’s crisp shirt free of his waistband. He cups his hand over Arthur’s cock, rolling at the hot press of it as Arthur bucks into him.

“Boy like you needs rough treatment, hm?” Eames squeezes, hard, before he tugs open Arthur’s flies. 

Arthur’s cock is gorgeous, neatly clipped and novel just like the rest of him. Eames will get his mouth on that another time, another million times if he has any say in the matter. For now, he bunches Arthur’s suit jacket up behind his back and inches Arthur’s trousers down just far enough to get his arse bare. Arthur’s so fun to rumple.

Arthur writhes against him, chasing every point of contact Eames offers him. He kisses sloppily at Eames’s mouth, pulling away to moan as Eames gropes at his arse and pulls him back close enough to graze their cocks together. 

“Just a taste,” Eames murmurs, tilting them to the side before he draws his hand back and brings it down on Arthur’s backside with a smack that echoes off the tiles. Arthur holds his breath for a second that seems to suck the air out of the room, just to let it out in a rush against Eames’s neck. 

“More,” Arthur gasps, his arms gripping tight around Eames’s waist. He arches back, too tempting an invitation for far better men than Eames. Two, three, four, Eames holds Arthur slack against him and spanks him, culling a broken noise out of Arthur that goes straight to Eames’s cock and hopefully hasn’t scandalized the entire restaurant, not that he can be fucked to care at the moment.

“That’s all for now,” Eames says, pushing Arthur back against the wall. Before Arthur can protest, he finds Arthur’s wrists and slowly, with a grin against Arthur’s panting mouth, brings them over Arthur’s head. Eames threads his fingers over Arthur’s crossed wrists, holding them together. He leans back to look into Arthur’s eyes.

Even in the low-light from the chintzy lantern, Eames can see the flush dappling Arthur’s face, making the onyx of his eyes dance. He squeezes at Arthur’s wrists, possessive, reassuring, drunk on the haze of Arthur’s face as his eyes struggle to stay open. 

A quick check of Eames’s hips has them grinding together, his cock catching on Arthur’s shirttails and probably making a mess. Dazed as he is, Arthur comes to rights quickly, angling himself to catch what he can of Eames’s cock against his. Eames arches an eyebrow and brings his palm up to Arthur’s mouth, wondering if he’ll have to tell Arthur what to do.

 _No_. Arthur gives him a look, all eyelashes and easy insouciance as he licks hot and wet over Eames’s palm. It’s filthy, the flat drag of his tongue, the flick of it over Eames’s middle finger. 

“Good boy,” Eames whispers, sliding his free hand down between their bodies. He has to angle his legs and urge Arthur to widen his stance, but he gets both their cocks lined up and tight in his spit-slick grip and it’s so fucking good, with nothing but the roll of their bodies together and Arthur safe in his hands.

“God, Eames,” Arthur murmurs, voice husky and his eyes rolling back as Eames strokes them together. Arthur’s long arms extend past the top of the divider, leaving his hands and Eames’s bruising grip on them visible to anyone lucky enough to walk in. 

“Close your eyes,” Eames says, in between greedy sucks on Arthur’s long neck and his chiseled jaw. Arthur’s eyes flutter, gorgeous, obedient, squeezing tight as Eames jacks their cocks faster.

“Next time,” Eames promises, licking along the plush lobe of Arthur’s ear, “I’m going to spank you until you come for me.”

Arthur jerks in his hands, hips arching up and his hands testing Eames’s mettle. Eames holds fast, gritting his teeth as Arthur’s cock drags against his own, catching at the head and Eames can’t tell which one of them is leaking more. He twists his wrist, spreading what he can, heedless of any stains he’s causing. 

“Come for me, Arthur, just like that.” Eames tightens his grip on Arthur’s wrists until he can feel the delicate bones grind together, threatening harm they both know he’d never pursue, even as he dances close to the edge of hurting Arthur. Arthur’s lip curls up and his eyes clamp shut, all of him wound up and strung out with nothing but Eames’s hands to tether him.

The ground could open up beneath them and Eames wouldn’t let him go.

“Eames,” Arthur gasps, choking and shocked as he seizes up and spills over Eames’s knuckles. It’s messy and wild and beautiful, but it’s nothing compared to the look of blissful agony on Arthur’s face as he screws his eyes shut, just the way Eames told him. 

“God, you’re good,” Eames murmurs, taking a greedy inhale of Arthur’s hair. “You’re so—”

The door creaks, offensively loud and brackish in Eames’s ears. Arthur goes still, breath held and body tense against Eames. There’s a sigh from outside, then the steady splash of someone relieving himself. Eames grins.

“Eames,” Arthur mouths, silent even as he keeps his eyes shut. 

“Shh,” Eames urges into Arthur’s ear, stretching his arm to full length to keep Arthur’s hands up, where any stray glance could catch them. Arthur quivers against him as Eames keeps stroking them, dragging his own hard cock over the sensitive length of Arthur’s spent dick. They’re slippery with Arthur’s spunk and Eames’s own precome; he’s always been generous in that department, and it’s impossible to keep entirely silent as Eames works himself to the finish. Impossible but so good, Eames’s orgasm hounding down on him with each tiny noise between them—the _thwick_ of their bodies together, the puppy-huffs Arthur makes from his nose, the growl in Eames’s throat he can’t be bothered to swallow. There’s someone taking a piss six feet from them and Arthur still obeys him, his eyes screwed shut even as a tear leaks from the corner of one. 

“Fuck,” Eames grits between his teeth, surging forward to dart his tongue over the swell of Arthur’s cheekbone as he comes. 

There’s another sigh, the swish of a zipper, and the disgusting absence of a tap running as their guest leaves them alone again.

“Look at me, Arthur.”

Arthur blinks his eyes open. Over the riot of red dotting his cheeks, Arthur’s eyes swim into focus. His breath is slow but steady, heaving his chest up and down against Eames as he pulls Arthur close. Eames brings Arthur’s hands down, massaging his wrists and making sure his fingers aren’t icicles. Arthur hums, shaking off Eames’s ministrations to grab Eames’s shirt and pull him in for a kiss.

Eames gladly accepts, in between doing his best to clean up the mess running down his hand. He mops most of it up with his undershirt, perfectly content to stink like sex for the indefinite future. 

They tuck themselves back in as best they can. Arthur is only mildly mussed, all things considered, and once he buttons his jacket back up he looks as good as new. Eames can’t resist running a hand through his hair. “How do you feel?” 

Arthur grins at him, lopsided as he glances down between them. “Like you just ruined my shirt, and I don’t give a shit.”

Eames could stash all his hopes and dreams in those dimples. Even buttoned up and tucked back in, Arthur’s a loose thing in his arms, kissing at Eames as they stumble out of the stall. They both wash their hands (they’re not animals) and Arthur rakes his hair back to order while Eames watches him in the mirror. 

Arthur catches him, barely looking abashed as he turns to look at his profile. Vanity’s a sin, but Eames has always been big on those. Arthur pushes off the sink ledge just to mold himself back to Eames, liquid and warm. Eames knows that look in Arthur’s eyes, knows the easy fall of his body against Eames’s chest. Arthur’s riding high on their little escapade. It’s the thrill and the danger of playing with someone as unspoiled as Arthur. He’s all for Eames to mold, but he’s also Eames’s to mind. 

“Take me home with you, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says, hooking two fingers into one of Eames’s stiff belt loops. He pulls them away from the sink, fussing slightly when Eames stops them.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you.” Eames slides his hand around the back of Arthur’s neck, applying gentle pressure. Arthur melts into it, as easy and suggestible as Eames had feared. “Tell me, Arthur, what will we do when we get to my flat?”

“Everything,” Arthur sighs, arching back and pressing himself into Eames’s grip, “Everything on that fucking list and then some, I want to do everything with you, Eames.”

Eames closes his eyes, tamping down the rumble of need that oozes into his gut. Arthur would do anything right now, anything Eames could dream of, and he’d do it full-steam until Eames said when. And while that all sounds lovely, there’s just as good a chance that Arthur will wake up in Eames’s filthy bed the next morning and hate himself right along with Eames.

“And that’s why you’re not coming home with me tonight.” Eames seals this with a kiss, drowning out Arthur’s pained _“What the fuck?”_

“I’ll make sure you get home, but you’re not coming back to mine tonight,” Eames insists.

“Eames, what—”

“Arthur, listen to me. You’re in no state to make big-boy decisions right now. Please trust me.”

“I trust you,” Arthur says, his eyebrows drawing together in indignation. “I totally trust you, I’m not drunk or anything, Eames, I can make decisions for myself.”

“I know, I know, and believe me, I am fighting every instinct I possess when I say this, but we’ll both be happier if we wait. I don’t... Arthur, if I take you home, I’m going to play with you, and I don’t trust myself to think better of it when you’re begging me to do things you’ve never tried. I don’t want our first real scene to be something you regret.”

Arthur stares at him, face softening. He sighs and tucks his head onto Eames’s shoulder, breathing out against him.

“Fine. But I really, really wanted you to fuck me tonight,” Arthur whispers, taking obvious delight in causing Eames physical pain. Eames groans and noses into Arthur’s hair, wrapping his hands around Arthur to glide up the slim lines of his back.

“We can have a snog in here until someone catches us,” Eames suggests, swallowing Arthur’s answering groan. Arthur walks them together until his back hits the wall, and just like that Arthur’s legs are around Eames’s waist and he has the glory of Arthur’s arse in both hands. Arthur looks down at him, eyes narrowed and the shadow of his dimples falling into relief.

“Are you going to kiss me now, Mr. Eames?”

In the soft red gleam of the overdecorated bathroom, Eames knows he’s done for.

~

He does see Arthur home, waving from the Lyft until Arthur disappears into his lobby. The blank-faced woman driving them will be getting a magnificent tip for silently navigating them all the way to Murray-fucking-Hill while Arthur had climbed into his lap. Eames can’t tip the mildly traumatized man who’d finally ended their time in the restaurant’s facilities, but he can at least pay it forward into the universe.

Eames gets back to Greenpoint what seems like a million years and twice as many red lights later. 

“Yusuf!”

Having an open-door policy with Yusuf means a few ill-timed interruptions and a general lack of personal secrets, but being able to pop in whenever he feels like it does have its perks.

Eames slams Yusuf’s door open, letting it reverberate with a loud clang before he wails again.

“Yusuf! I’m ill!”

Eames throws himself onto Yusuf’s overstuffed couch and flings one arm over his head. Yusuf appears from the bedroom, wearing a cobalt-blue bathrobe and a pair of fuzzy bunny-rabbit slippers. A whorl of smoke radiates from the fat spliff perched between his fingers.

“What is it? Migraine? Hangover? Coke dick?” Yusuf takes a hit and narrows his eyes at Eames. “Crabs?”

Yusuf had dropped out of both a chemistry doctorate and his third year of medical school, making him the closest thing Eames has to a physician in this country’s godforsaken hellscape of privatized medicine.

“I don’t get migraines,” Eames says, staring up at the pressed-tin of Yusuf’s ceiling. Half of it is a different pattern from Eames’s. He’s not sure if someone fixed it and couldn’t find a matching pattern, or just ran out halfway through construction and said, _Fuck it._ Eames’s ceiling isn’t mismatched, and maybe that will please Arthur when he stares up at it from Eames’s bed. And his couch. And his floor. 

“This is far worse, Yusuf.” He rolls on to his side, draping his arm to do his best Elizabeth Taylor. “It’s my heart.”

“Still not ruling out the coke dick,” Yusuf mutters, slumping down into an armchair and offering Eames a hit off his joint.

“No, you philistine,” Eames says, waving Yusuf off. “I’m besotted. I’m enraptured, I’m inflamed, I’m captivated. My heart has been absconded with by a boy named Arthur.”

“Ah, so you’re just thirsty,” Yusuf observes. “I can make tea?”

Eames lets his head loll back against the arm of the sofa. “Yusuf, he’s perfect, he’s a bloody dream rolled into a designer suit and I’m not going to sleep until I see him again.”

“And pray-tell, why isn’t this boy in your bed right now?”

“Because I did the right thing, Yusuf.” Eames sighs and swaps the arm covering his eyes.

“Oh. You do like him, then.”

“Terribly. I like him so much I dragged him into the loo and by the time we were done he was absolutely floating. He’s so good, Yusuf, God, I’m the first person who’s ever spanked his arse and you should have seen his face.” Eames lets out a pained noise. 

“If he’s half as loopy as you are right now, you did the right thing packing him off,” Yusuf says, nodding and blowing a cloud of smoke into the rafters.

“He’s coming over Saturday.”

“The human body can survive six days without food, Eames. I’m sure you’ll last two without, what’s it, Arthur?”

“Arthur,” Eames repeats, making love to each syllable before he sighs it out like Yusuf’s plume of smoke.

“Oh, and Robert’s cleaning the place tomorrow, isn’t he?” Yusuf asks.

“Yes, that’s right.” Eames sits up. Tomorrow’s one of the every-other-Fridays that Jieon’s sub comes and cleans his and Yusuf’s apartments, _perfect_. “The place will be spotless, lovely. He’s neat as a pin, Arthur is.”

Eames rolls his eyes at how smitten he sounds, even to himself.

“Come on, let’s watch something nice and distracting,” Yusuf says, which is how Eames finds himself nodding off to the numbing hum of the Real Housewives of Atlanta and the image of Arthur’s gleaming smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ExaggeratedSpecificity continues to spoil me with beautiful aesthetics!](https://saltandbyrne.tumblr.com/post/616936379442675712/mr-eames-and-the-boy-wonder-chapter-4-up-now)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Arthur?” Eames says, his eyes going wide. He freezes, something long and black in his hand. Arthur blinks, recognizing it as a riding crop.
> 
> “This is a surprise,” Eames continues, tossing his crop aside and rising onto his bare feet. Sweatpants hang from his hips. Arthur forces himself to look away from the tattoos crawling across Eames’s stomach and up at his face.

Let the record show that Arthur is, in fact, in Williamsburg on business. 

He doesn’t have many clients in Brooklyn, but he’d gotten a referral to a tech startup in one of the new high rises that needed a bookkeeper for some freelance work. The money’s more than good enough to get him on the L train, and the owners seem, while still assholes, like Lesser Assholes in the grand scheme of Tech Bros.

Still, while Arthur might be in the neighborhood, relatively speaking, or at least the next neighborhood over and really he’s right on the border of the two, it’s no accident that he slipped a brand new copy of _Catwoman: When in Rome_ into his bag on his way out. He’d gotten it for Eames before their date and it had been staring at him when he’d stumbled home last night. 

Stumbled. Arthur hadn’t stumbled, he’d flown. Half a bottle of wine didn’t even come close to explaining the flush he’d felt all night. He’d thrown himself on his couch and just stayed there, slipping his hand down his pants and trying to remember every single thing Eames had said to him. _Next time, I’m going to spank you until you come for me._

It’s like being high, if being high didn’t come with a hangover. Arthur had woken up like a Disney princess, hugging his pillow and smiling, one musical number away from having singing birds lay out his suit. He’d given his barista a twenty dollar tip and smiled at a stranger on the subway. 

Eames had said he’d be home all day, something about finishing orders for MAL. Arthur really needs to Google all the acronyms Eames uses. He hadn’t invited Arthur over, explicitly, but still. He’d mentioned it.

It’s nice enough to walk, so Arthur follows the river north until he’s standing at Eames’s corner, wondering what Jesus and Jack Kirby would want him to do.

They both think he looks a little desperate.

“I’ll just leave it by the door,” Arthur says to himself. He pulls a clean sheet of paper off his notepad and writes “Mr. Eames—A” in neat letters before folding it and tucking it behind the title page so it sticks up over the top. That’s not stalkery, it’s thoughtful. 

Arthur’s been thoughtful, distractedly so since Eames had forced him out of their cab and sent him home. Arthur’s jerked off more in the past 12 hours than he does in most _weeks_ , and honestly if Eames invited him up he’d be ready to punch in for another round with very little provocation. 

Eames had been right to end the night, Arthur can see that now. He’d spent the morning vacillating between an aching hard-on and a mild sense of embarrassment about how candidly he’d begged Eames to, God, had he actually said _“hang me upside down and fuck my face until I pass out?”_ He had. Jack Kirby might be proud of him but Jesus is definitely making a face.

Arthur’s still extremely interested in both hanging upside down and having Eames fuck any available part of him until he passes out, but he can see how this shit can get out of hand. He’s a kid in a candy store, where he only knows what a third of the candy tastes like and that some of it leaves scars. Arthur hadn’t felt like himself, and that’s the best part, how different he is with Eames, how easy it all is. It’s heady and addictive and Arthur can see how it makes people a little insane. Arthur’s an adult, but he can see his _yes_ bearing a little less weight when he’s shot-up with adrenaline and Eames’s leather-bound hold on him.

Eames had taken care of him. A little gift of thanks is hardly inappropriate. Eames will love this story. 

Arthur’s double-checking the note when the front door of Eames’s building opens. Arthur jumps, just to heave a sigh of relief, or possibly mild disappointment, when Yusuf holds the door open for a pretty girl with pink hair and huge black glasses. 

“See you next week, dear,” Yusuf says, waving at her retreat before turning to Arthur. “Can I help you?”

“Oh, I was just leaving this. For Mister, for Eames,” Arthur babbles, frozen in place with his book. Yusuf squints at the title before letting out a soft “Ah.”

“Sorry, I’ll just—”

“You’re Arthur,” Yusuf says, his eyebrows rising up toward his mop of curls. Arthur has the feeling Yusuf in a tux and tails would still look like he’d just rolled out of bed.

“Yeah, we met before? I was getting a fitting?” At least Arthur can blame his brisk walk for the spots of color on his cheeks.

Yusuf squints at him. “Ah, yes, the,” Yusuf flutters his fingers over his chest, making a vague wing pattern.

“Yeah,” Arthur says. “I’ll just leave this here, if that’s OK.”

“Why don’t you give it to him yourself? He’s home, I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to see you.” Yusuf is so friendly, it’s hard to doubt anything he says. 

“Oh, I don’t—really?” Arthur hesitates, one foot on the threshold. 

“Absolutely. Here, I’ll walk you up.”

Arthur follows Yusuf up the stairs, clutching his graphic novel to his chest like it’s his first day of school. He’s only wearing a trench coat and a thin scarf, but he immediately feels every layer. Eames’s building is warm, and by the time Arthur makes it to the top of the stairs he’s sweating. He tugs his coat open and leaves the metal clasp of the belt bouncing against his thigh as he rounds the big bend of the staircase. 

“ _If you don’t have food you can fuck off, Yusuf._ ” Eames’s voice rings out as Yusuf turns the knob.

“Brought a snack,” Yusuf yells as he pulls the door open. He winks at Arthur and leaves him to cross Eames’s threshold. 

Eames is sitting on his sofa, cross-legged, his hair messier than Arthur has seen it. It falls in soft waves to one side, showing off the close shave of his undercut. Arthur doesn’t have long to contemplate Eames’s hair, though, not when he’s shirtless. He hasn’t seen Eames without a shirt yet, hasn’t seen most of the motley crew of tattoos that decorate him like a mantle. 

“Arthur?” Eames says, his eyes going wide. He freezes, something long and black in his hand. Arthur blinks, recognizing it as a riding crop.

“This is a surprise,” Eames continues, tossing his crop aside and rising onto his bare feet. Sweatpants hang from his hips. Arthur forces himself to look away from the tattoos crawling across Eames’s stomach and up at his face.

“I was in the neighborhood, for work, and I thought I’d—”

A man comes out of Eames’s bedroom. He’s stunning, the kind of gorgeous that stops traffic and makes people swoon—ice blue eyes under a shock of close-cropped black hair, full lips and freckles, acres of lean muscle and pale skin set off by a thin, gleaming collar around his neck. A frilly apron nips in his waist over an undershirt and jeans. He doesn’t look up at Arthur as he carries a rumpled mass of linens into the kitchen. Arthur’s heart plummets. 

“I thought,” Arthur repeats, stupidly, staring at the man’s back as he calmly starts a load in the washing machine. He knows where the soap is, and he turns all the dials like he’s done it a hundred times. 

Arthur is such a fucking idiot.

“Arthur, this is Robert,” Eames says, every syllable measured. “He cleans for me.” 

Robert nods at Arthur as he balances the empty laundry basket on his hip. He keeps his eyes on the floor, demure as he makes his way to Eames’s bathroom. 

“Cleans,” Arthur says, deadpan. He has a swarm of bees in his head. _Cleans_.

“Yes, broom, mop, that sort of business?” Eames cracks a smile. “He can make tea, too, if you’d like.”

“I don’t want fucking _tea_ ,” Arthur snaps, swallowing the wave of hysteria that’s creeping up from his gut. _Such a fucking idiot._ Eames’s eyes dart back and forth between Arthur and the bathroom as he mutters a curse under his breath.

“Arthur, why don’t you have a seat and we can talk?” Eames wants to serve him tea and talk, like the room isn’t spinning and Arthur’s entire face isn’t prickling with humiliation.

“I’ll, um, I’ll talk to you later,” Arthur says, desperate suddenly for fresh air and something he understands. He bolts out and down Eames’s stairs while Eames yells after him.

“Arthur, wait. Wait!” Eames’s bare feet stomp hard enough to shake plaster dust off the walls as he chases after Arthur.

“Not seeing anyone else, huh?” Arthur spins on his heel, gritting his teeth. His eyes burn, but God, he’s not going to cry, not in Eames’s lobby.

“Arthur, he’s just a friend—“

“Did you really ‘just a friend’ me?”

“I know it looks—He _is_! We’re not together—“

“You’re half fucking naked and trying to tell me—.”

“It’s my fucking house, Arthur, I can wear—“

“—casually whip everyone who comes—”

“I wasn’t—Christ, _Arthur,_ calm _—_ “

“—can’t blame you, he’s hot—don’t fucking tell me to calm down—”

“—he’s straight, for fuck’s sake!”

“ _Really_? Random straight guys just show up at your apartment with collars and fucking maid’s aprons, Eames?”

“He _cleans_ , Arthur, I don’t know, it’s his thing—“

“His _thing_? What, does he pay you? So you’re a fucking whore, too?”

Arthur regrets it the second it leaves his mouth. Eames’s face shutters closed, his lips pressing together.

“I’ll give you one chance to take that back,” Eames says, his voice steely. The air whips in through the lobby, cutting cold against Arthur’s cheek.

“Oh, I’m taking _everything_ back,” Arthur says, buttoning up his coat. His fingers are shaking. 

“I am friends with his _wife_ , Arthur. There’s nothing going on between us.” 

Arthur has heard that line way too many times. 

“I trusted you,” Arthur says. “I fucking _trusted_ you, Eames.”

Eames takes a deep breath as he holds his hand out. “This is all a misunderstanding, darling, please—“

“Don’t call me that.”

Eames reaches for his arm, a strained smile on his face. “Just come upstairs, you can ask him—“

“Don’t _fucking_ touch me.” Arthur snatches his arm back so quickly Eames recoils. Arthur’s going to be sick. Or break something. He ties his trenchcoat tight, setting his mouth into a thin line as the belt digs into his waist. “I can’t see you tomorrow.”

“Arthur—”

“Or, at all. I think it’s better if we don’t see each other again.”

Eames stalks up to Arthur, close enough to his face that Arthur sees the fire in his eyes, the mad flush over the flat-bashed bridge of his nose. He smells like he hasn’t showered since Arthur left him, like rumpled sheets and warm hair. Arthur turns away. 

“I haven’t fucked anyone, or played with anyone, or sent so much as a salacious text message since the day I met you, Arthur, not since you walked into my house swinging your arse at me and pretending you were so fucking naïve. You came to _me_ , remember that?”

Arthur snorts, imagining Eames fucking and playing and sexting with every handsome face his highjacked imagination can conjure. It’s a horror show. “I was bored, all right? I was bored, and I thought I’d try something new, and guess what? You’re the same as every other piece of shit I’ve—”

 _Fallen for_. Arthur swallows, sick with it. 

“This is fucking ridiculous, I’ve been nothing but—”

“You know what, Eames? I don’t care.” Arthur reaches for the door and stops. He still has his stupid gift tucked under his arm. 

“Here.” Arthur throws the book at Eames’s feet. “Take it, I already have a copy.”

Arthur doesn’t look back as he stalks out onto the cold street, but he cringes as he hears something slam into the mailboxes.

~

He’d met Nash at a con.

Nash was a perfect Red Hood. Impetuous and lanky, with violence simmering behind those gorgeous wide eyes, he could make Arthur feel like the center of the universe. The first time they’d fucked, in Nash’s Burbank hotel room with their costumes half-on, he’d watched Arthur so intently it nearly blistered him. That’s what Nash was, a fire—flaring up and dying down on his own impulse, scorching Arthur just to leave him shaking and raw. 

Nash was the first boyfriend of Arthur’s ever to get really rough with him. They hadn’t talked about it, certainly not in the measured, well-defined way Eames had required. After a tense night at Emerald City where Nash had spent half the evening flirting with some Namor cosplayer from Texas just to tell Arthur he was being too sensitive, Arthur had dared Nash to slap him and Nash had, so quickly Arthur’s head had spun off its axis. They had sex that broke bed frames and racked up hotel room damage fees, that left pock marks in Nash’s walls and cost Arthur an original Bruce Timm sketch. Nash could make him come so hard it hurt, so hard it almost washed away the sick feeling that crept into Arthur’s stomach when they came back to the surface and surveyed the damage. 

Arthur had waited for that feeling after Eames had tied him up at Nadia’s. He’d waited for it after their date, too, waited for the giddy romp of his stomach to morph into nausea and self-loathing, but it had never come. And Arthur, in his infinite gullibility, had convinced himself it was because Eames was different.

Arthur takes the subway home, sitting blankly next to strangers and nearly missing one of his transfers. He’d sat on this train and stared at those fucking pictures Eames had taken of him, pictures he still has on his phone. Arthur’s mouth tastes sour as he recalls the cocky grin on Eames’s face, the way he’d grabbed himself like an Easter egg for Arthur to find. _Different_.

That’s how fucking stupid he is, how desperate to fool himself into thinking someone like Eames is anything resembling “boyfriend” material. As if anything Eames said could be trusted. Arthur’s always prided himself on being a fast learner, and one lesson Nash had drilled him on was how easily people can lie. They can smile and do it, telling him that he’s crazy and _No, he’d never met that guy before tonight_. They can cry, with tears welling up because _it’s Arthur’s fault, they’d talked about this, they’re allowed to see other people and Arthur is the one who should be apologizing_. 

If it quacks like a duck and has a hot guy cleaning its apartment, it’s a fucking duck.

Arthur strips out of his clothes when he gets home. He can smell the close warmth of Eames’s house, the soft spice that seems to trail behind him. He needs a fucking shower. He shoves his things in the hamper and slams the lid. Arthur wants to break things until the feeling in his chest pours out of him in one long scream.

Arthur turns the tap to hot and closes his eyes.

~

He dodges Ariadne for three weeks, which is no mean feat. 

Arthur falls into his routine, hard. Living by rote is always his first recourse when things fall apart. He does weights and runs in the mornings and classes in the evenings, seeking the solace of sheer physical exhaustion and the distracting ache of his muscles. He eats the same salad from Sweetgreen for lunch and dinner. He cuts patterns for a new Justice League: Outsiders costume. He takes quick, cold showers after his runs, jolting him awake. His new clients are thrilled when he finishes his work for them two days ahead of deadline. He scrubs his baseboards and washes his miniblinds and does absolutely everything in his power not to think about Eames. His days blend together into one gray mass, punctuated only by ever-increasing runs to his coffee shop and miserable, perfunctory jerk-off attempts that mostly leave him slamming his laptop shut and willing himself not to type “bondage” into the search bar. Overall, he thinks he’s handling it pretty well.

Ariadne finally waylays him at SoulCycle.

“This is so funny, you look just like my best friend Arthur, although I’m pretty sure he’s been hijacked by a Cylon because he’s been sending me monosyllabic text messages and cancelling our weekly Cosplay Coda date.” Ariadne leans against the lockers, her hair falling in honeyed waves against her leather jacket. A scarf drapes down to her waist.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur sighs, stretching and toweling sweat off his neck. It’s all he needs to say. She presses a kiss to his cheek, never one to give a fuck if Arthur’s a sweaty mess. 

She looks him up and down, taking in his shorts and Under Armour shirt. “Carbs called. They miss you.”

She waits for him to shower and change. Arthur runs the water extra-hot and douses himself in the Le Labo shower gel. At least he can be a pleasant-smelling disaster of a human being.

Ariadne watches him pack his bag, her arms crossed over her chest. “You need a trim, too.”

Arthur palms a hand through his hair. She’s right, of course.

“You’re coming over, and you’re going to tell me what the fuck is going on. And, you’re paying for a cab.”

Ariadne shares a house with three roommates, two guinea pigs, and a pool table. She technically has two rooms to herself, one her bedroom and the other a smaller “office” where she cuts hair off the books and sews. Sharing a home with that many people sounds like Arthur’s personal version of hell, but Ariadne seems happy enough with it. She has space, and a backyard, two luxuries New York has taught him not to take for granted.

“Pay your tithe,” she directs as they walk in, taking his jacket and nodding toward the massive cage that houses Hugin and Munin. The guinea pigs technically belong to Sarida, but they serve as benign gods to all who enter.

Arthur waves back to the “Hey, Arthur,” he gets from Chloë and Esther. They’re under an impressive blanket-fort on the threadbare couch, half-way through Mothra vs. Godzilla, by the looks of it. 

Arthur grabs two carrot sticks out of the fridge and dutifully feeds the two chirping faces that poke out of the cage, smiling despite himself as they chomp their little teeth through the bars. Arthur’s not sure what constitutes fat for a guinea pig, but he knows they’re both spoiled. Ariadne watches approvingly as Arthur skritches Hugin’s pink nose.

“In the chair,” Ariadne orders, giving Munin a skritch of her own before leading Arthur into her work room.

“A little more off the sides, OK?” Ariadne settles a towel around his shoulders. In the floor-length mirror that Arthur had helped her carry home from the Goodwill and paint electric blue, Arthur stares at himself. He does look skinny, a little drawn around the mouth. The circles under his eyes are a testament to how hard he’s been going on the caffeine. He slumps into Ariadne’s repurposed bar stool, closing his eyes as the weight of it all settles around him.

“What’s going on, Arthur?”

Ariadne wets his hair with a spray bottle and runs her fingers through it, scratching gently at his scalp. This is part of Ariadne’s magic, he’s sure of it. She picks up her scissors and it all comes pouring out of Arthur, from the checklist and the first date and the bathroom to his stupid gift and gorgeous Robert and the maid’s apron and the realization that Eames is, in fact, just like every other guy Arthur’s ever gotten involved with.

“And he hasn’t even texted. … Not that I’d answer,” Arthur adds, because he wouldn’t. But it hasn’t stopped him from compulsively checking his phone, alternately rejoicing and despairing that Eames has absolutely no social media on which Arthur can stalk him. _Must make it easier to keep all his boyfriends separated._

“Maybe he’s telling the truth?” Ariadne combs his hair over the side and looks at him in the mirror.

“Ari, when are they ever telling the truth?”

Ariadne shrugs. “Annie’s been spending a lot of time with him. He seems like a good guy, I mean, she’s always saying how patient he is. She told me she’s going to do a tortoise on me next week. I have no idea what that means, but I’m pretty much ovulating just thinking about it.”

“God, I haven’t even asked you about Annie.” Arthur says, grimacing. “I’m sorry. I’m a garbage friend.”

“You’re allowed three dumpster-dives a year. And you did help me load up for that wedding expo last spring, so you’ve still got some black in your ledger.” She switches to the clippers, flicking them on with a dull buzz.

“But, Arthur.” Ariadne sighs with her entire body. “She’s amazing. We’ve been having so much sex I’m afraid I’m developing carpal tunnel. She lives ten minutes away and her cats like me and her pussy is like a fucking work of art.”

Arthur smiles as she trims the nape of his neck. 

“She wants to do the _Romita_ Catwoman for Wizard World,” Ariadne says, squinting as she buzzes along behind his ear.

“Oh, with the shrug? That’ll look great.” _City of Bane_ had been a great run, Tom King’s writing at its best. Arthur sighs and crosses his arms over his chest. Eames would have made a great Bane. 

“And she posted one of my wigs on her page and got me four new orders.” 

Ariadne’s other side-hustle is making cosplay wigs. They’re gorgeous, but the amount of work they take and the prices she charges make Arthur grateful he can use his own hair for 99% of his characters.

“And, she’s gonna help me make a mask for my Renee-Montoya-Question.” Ariadne lays out her plans for her latest costume, as the dapper, faceless detective, The Question. It’s pleasant, the warm rake of Ariadne’s hands through his hair, her easy chatter about how good she’ll look in the fedora and tie of her new character. She finishes Arthur’s hair off with some gel and nods.

“There. Now you look like a handsome shut-in instead of just a plain-old shut-in.” 

“Thanks, Ari.”

Arthur’s allowed to be vain about his hair, it being an extension of Ariadne’s talent. It does look better a little closer to the sides like this.

Ariadne brushes the stray hairs off his neck and whips her towel off. Arthur’s almost done with his usual barter-work of sweeping up when Ariadne’s phone dings. 

“Annie wants a nightcap,” Ariadne says, glee clearly visible on her face. “She says things like that. A _nightcap_?”

 _“What, does she have a case of the mean reds?”_ Arthur jokes, doing his best Audrey Hepburn. It’s not very good, but Ariadne indulges him.

 _“We’re just a couple of no-name slobs,”_ she says, winking at him as she plugs in her curling iron. She throws a few quick curls in her hair and sprays it with something that smells like really expensive oranges.

“Thanks for everything,” Arthur says, wrapping her up in a hug. Even if he has gotten leaner, Ariadne’s still tiny against his chest. She squeezes him, deceptively strong, and smiles up at him.

“You’re welcome,” she says, “but you’re not off the hook yet.” She disappears into her bedroom and returns, holding their jackets.

“You’re coming,” she says.

~

Annie’s sitting at the bar when they walk in.

“Arthur!”

Even in flats, she’s taller than Arthur. She hops off her barstool and gives him a big hug. Her black turtleneck is soft as she wraps her arms around him.

“It’s so good to see you. You have to try one of these, Lucas made it special for me.” She holds up a cocktail glass to the bartender, who almost trips over himself as he rushes over. 

“Two more for my lady and her friend, Lucas,” Annie orders, smiling at him before turning her attention to Ariadne.

Lucas looks more resigned than anything else as Annie gives Ariadne a long kiss _Hello_. “Hey, baby,” she murmurs, a phrase Arthur has to mouth back at Ariadne the second Annie’s not looking at him. Ariadne gives him a look that could geld someone, although it’s quickly replaced with a pleasant smile as Lucas clinks two fresh drinks onto the bar. There’s a sprig of rosemary arching over the rim.

“He calls it The Whip,” Annie says, handing them their drinks. _Poor Lucas_. They toast and Arthur’s pleasantly surprised at how good his drink is. _Bourbon, rosemary, lots of citrus, yuzu maybe?_ It warms his chest and leaves a nice aromatic aftertaste.

“Doesn’t Arthur’s hair look great?” Ariadne says, fussing with a stray strand over Arthur’s ear. Arthur holds his arms out, accepting Annie’s close appraisal.

“You are so talented,” Annie says to Ariadne, clinking their glasses and tucking Ariadne fully under her arm.

Arthur can say one good thing for being single. At least he’ll have plenty of free time to help one of them load up a U-Haul in the near future. And he’d do it gladly. Annie’s lovely, brimming with funny stories and salacious gossip about cosplay scene drama and her time in L.A. She praises Arthur’s latest Nightwing and promises to come over for their next “Airbrush and Aperol Spritz” party.

“Ugh, it’s one of the Karens,” Ariadne moans as her phone chirps. The Karens book Ariadne for weddings, proms, and special events, gigs that pay handsomely but require her to deal with, well, two Karens. “I’ll be right back.”

Ariadne darts outside, leaving Arthur alone with half a drink and Annie.

“So,” Annie says, slouching one arm against the bar and fixing Arthur in the headlights of her eyes. He can see why Catwoman was an easy choice for Annie. He’s not sure if he’s about to be batted around or licked. “I’ve been hanging out with our friend Mr. Eames.”

Arthur frowns. “Can’t say we’re that friendly at the moment.”

“The last time I saw you two, you seemed to be getting along swimmingly,” she says, arching an eyebrow. 

“Let’s just say Mr. Eames and I have a different definition of seeing other people,” Arthur snorts, glancing at the door and willing Ariadne back to them.

“Funny. He hasn’t mentioned anyone. Except you,” Annie adds, “and I had to wheedle that one out of him.”

“Yeah, well, ask him about Robert the next time you’re wheedling.”

Annie leans forward. “Robert? Robert Fisher, Robert? Blue eyes, makes the straight girls go all dewy?”

Arthur swallows.

“Robert who cleans Eames’s house? And Tim’s? And Nadia’s, I think. Arthur, Robert’s straight. And married. I met him and his wife at a party in L.A., she’s tiny but she is nothing to fuck with when she’s got a whip.” She nods with respect and takes another sip of her drink. 

“Look, I’m not judging anyone for their… kinks or anything, and I’m not as experienced as some people,” Arthur says, giving Annie a pointed look, “but I’ve been around long enough to know that ‘straight’ and ‘married’ don’t mean much to a guy like Eames.”

“Well, they do to Robert. His wife just gets off on making him do manual labor. He grew up rich or something, I’m not sure. But he doesn’t do anything but clean. Like, really well, seriously, Tim’s house is always immaculate. Eames didn’t tell you any of this?”

“He… yeah, he did, but,” Arthur shrugs, looking down at the wilting rosemary stem in his drink. Arthur has dreamt up a hundred iterations of what Eames has been doing in his absence, but telling the truth hasn’t made the list once. 

“Arthur, I don’t know everything about Eames’s personal life, but I know he’s not sleeping with Robert. Or doing anything with him except making sure he leaves the Swiffer out. Robert barely speaks when he’s there, it’s kind of unsettling.”

“So he’s mentioned me?” Arthur can’t help it. 

“Yes. He usually side-steps it, and it was super awkward the first time I mentioned you and he looked like I’d kicked him in the nuts. But he said you two had a disagreement. And he may have called you a puritanical American,” she adds, quirking her lips in barely-suppressed amusement.

Arthur can hear him say it, too. 

“And I don’t think he’s been doing so good since you two—” she slices through the air with her hand. “I came over the other day and he was blasting Kate Bush. I watched him eat an entire sleeve of Oreos while I did a chest harness on one of his mannequins. It’s been rough.”

The idea of Eames shoving cookies into his face (God, he’d probably call them _biscuits_ , wouldn’t he?) makes Arthur smile. 

“There go my next two weekends,” Ariadne says, sliding back in between them and sighing dramatically. “What kind of grown woman wants ‘Princess Elsa hair’ for her wedding?”

“You wear a cape. For fun,” Annie deadpans, until they all crack up. 

“And I look adorable doing it,” Ariadne says, graciously accepting a kiss from Annie.

“Next round’s on me, who needs?” Ariadne flags down Lucas, who’s not quite as quick on his heels as he is for Annie. 

Arthur stares down at his empty glass and pokes his rosemary sprig through the ice. “Did Eames say anything else?”

Annie shakes her head. “Look, there’s an opening in Chelsea next week, by this photographer Eames is friends with. I’m taking Ariadne. You should come.” Annie places her hand over Arthur’s. “I’ll tell her to give you the info, OK?”

Ariadne takes his empty glass and presses his new drink into his hand. 

“I think I may have fucked things up,” Arthur says. He leans against the bar and sighs. Ariadne clinks their glasses together, shrugging.

“At least your hair looks great.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suddenly, all of the things Arthur had planned to say to Eames catch in his throat. Witty comments and pithy bits of flirtation elbow their way past heartfelt apologies and self-deprecating cracks, all coalescing into one word. 
> 
> “Eames.”

**“Brutal Intimacy: Love in the Aftermath.”**

Arthur stares up at the title piece of Morrow Gallery. With his hands slung into his pockets, he stands at the entrance, tracing nervous circles over the stitching of his belt loops. 

Spotlights glint off the oversized black and white image in front of him. Two women kiss, their heads turned to catch them in profile. The lighting is stylized, casting a blonde woman in overexposed light, making her incandescent as she tilts her head up to her partner. The other woman, butch, strikingly beautiful, with a shaved head and tattoos snaking down her arms, is cast in rich charcoal and black shadow. Her hand emerges from the darkness, clad in a leather glove and tangled in the lead hanging from her partner’s collar. Light glints off her knuckles, a tangible reflection of her strength and dominance. Their lips meet in a gentle kiss, the dominant woman’s pressed into a fond purse while the submissive’s hang slack, so vivid Arthur can just imagine the gentle tremble of them. Mascara runs down her face, black streaks of it painting her cheek. It’s a sharp contrast to her look of beatific peace.

“Damn.” Ariadne leans against him, tilting her head. 

“Yeah,” Arthur agrees. It’s a stunning image, the sort of thing he could stare at for hours. It makes him melancholy and hopeful all at once.

“Shall we?” Annie hooks her arm with Ariadne’s and leads her off to the main gallery. Arthur trails a step behind them, smiling to himself. They make a good couple, Annie in her black cocktail dress and pumps, Ariadne in stovepipe slacks and a neatly-tailored shirt. Annie’s hair towers in an intricate up-do, no doubt the handiwork of Ariadne and her Aquanet. 

The gallery is buzzing with guests and caterers and the clink of cocktail glasses. Arthur gets a Riesling and snags a “shrimp in bondage” from a professionally-handsome waiter. He eats it in a single bite and stabs the knotted bamboo toothpick into an artfully-carved lemon rosette. This is nicer than the last gallery opening Ariadne had dragged him to, where he’d endured a lukewarm bottle of Yuengling and watched one of Ariadne’s college friends knit things with her own hair. 

A man who can only be Saito stands at the center of a swirl of people. He’s painfully handsome, someone Arthur would hit on at a different party. His suit is stunning, with a long coat and pleated neckline that few people could pull off without looking pompous or pretentious. Saito looks like he’s in his element, nodding his head at his admirers and giving concise, incisive answers that leave his guests enraptured. Arthur doesn’t recognize any of the people he’s talking to.

All of the photographs have been blown up larger than life, at least six feet by Arthur’s estimate. There’s twice as much distance between each image, lending a vastness to the work that forces Arthur to focus on each piece as a single story. 

Saito has captured all kinds of pairings. Men, women, couples, threesomes. Leather daddies and butch dykes shine next to straight couples that wouldn’t look out of place at a PTA dinner, aside from the heavy bondage gear under their tennis outfits. 

Arthur pauses in front of one image. There’s a small crowd standing and quietly discussing composition and light, contrast and saturation. Arthur’s heart flutters against the birdcage in his chest.

Two men hold each other, their grizzled beards mingling as they cradle the backs of each other’s heads. Their eyes are closed, their lips just about to brush together. A wedding band gleams on a left ring finger. Just visible in the bottom of the frame are the back pockets of their jeans, where matching handkerchiefs bloom. Eames had been wearing one of those when he’d appeared in Arthur's comic shop like a fever dream. Arthur wends his way through the elegant crowd. He still doesn’t recognize anyone as he accepts another hors d'oeuvre and shoulders in beside two men to look at the next photograph.

A man sits in a leather armchair, his posture easy and his leg crossed at the knee. He’s wearing an elegant suit and casually dangling a paddle from his fingers. A woman sits at his feet, her hair spilling out of pigtails and her pleated skirt pooling around her hips. She stares up at him, her tongue stuck out like a naughty child. Nevermind that they’re both in their sixties. It’s playful and loving, a moment of spontaneity to offset the highly stylized setting. Arthur wonders how many years they’ve been together. 

There’s a crowd in front of the next piece. Arthur waits, scanning the room again for any sign of broad shoulders and a bull-neck. Annie and Ariadne have earned an audience with Saito, who smiles politely at them as they laugh at some joke he’s made. Arthur straightens his cuffs as Annie playfully bats Saito on the arm.

The crowd thins and Arthur is suddenly confronted with Robert Fisher’s face. Arthur’s breath catches. He can see why Saito wanted him as a subject. Robert is arrestingly, _shockingly_ beautiful, with his face upturned and the clear blue of his eyes rendered into the blinding relief of black and white. They’re glassy with unshed tears, his eyelashes curving back as he stares up. He’s shirtless, all pale skin and long limbs, not kneeling on the floor so much as collapsed upon it. His arms snake up around a woman’s knees, glowing white against the black of her boots. Her hand cradles his cheek, as tiny as the rest of her petite frame. A whip is coiled in her other hand, and a look of burning pride dances across her face. 

“Beautiful, innit?” _That voice_. Every hair on Arthur’s neck stands at attention. He steels himself for disappointment, ready to swallow the hope that swells in his chest, but no, it’s Eames, solid and real and even more handsome than Arthur’s fervid memory, who comes to stand beside him. A red flannel shirt is rolled up to show his forearms, letting his tattoos peek out. His jeans are an inky midnight, tight everywhere, showing off the curve of his ass where his suspenders dangle loose, red like the laces on his boots. There’s a glint of black and silver across his chest, where his shirt is unbuttoned enough to show off the harness he’s wearing over his ribbed undershirt. A bamboo toothpick sticks out of his mouth, resting easily on the pillow-swell of his lower lip. He’s fucking gorgeous and huge and more perfect than anything hanging on the walls. 

Suddenly, all of the things Arthur had planned to say to Eames catch in his throat. Witty comments and pithy bits of flirtation elbow their way past heartfelt apologies and self-deprecating cracks, all coalescing into one word. 

“Eames.”

Arthur turns to him, halfway to throwing himself bodily at Eames’s feet before he stops. Eames stares forward, his arms crossed over his chest as he nods at the photograph.

“See, what I like about this one, it’s as much about what he’s left out as what he’s put in. Looking at Robert’s face, we can see the tears welling in his eyes, yeah? And then there’s Jieon’s whip, the way she holds it like it’s part of her. If Saito had shot Robert’s back, all we’d see is lash marks and bruises. But that’s not the important part, the violence of the act. That’s a means. This is the end, see? This moment of catharsis, of connection between them. It’s more dramatic with Robert, hard to ignore those eyes, but look at her face. Look at how proud she is. She adores him. And he trusts her, implicitly, even as she’s holding the very whip she just used to beat the tar-piss out of him.”

“Maybe the trust is the act of violence. Maybe that’s what really shocks us,” Arthur says, his face burning as Eames turns to him. “Maybe that’s the terrifying part, trusting someone that much, giving them that much power over you.”

“You say that like it’s a one-way street. She trusts him, too. It’s not as though she can wrest anything from him, he’s twice her size and wreathed in every privilege imaginable. But he gives his submission to her, he chooses her. She trusts him not to snatch it away and leave her with nothing but a whip in her hand, to stay after he’s seen the worst of her and say she’s still worth loving. The sub’s always the one with the real power.”

“She’s so focused on him,” Arthur says. “It must… I can’t imagine what it’s like to have someone look at you like that.”

“It’s like nothing else exists. The way he breathes, the smallest expression on his face, the flutter of an eyelash. It’s all there is when you’re locked in with someone.” Eames stares at the picture, his toothpick sliding from one corner of his mouth to the other. “And I think you can imagine it, Arthur. I think you have, just like I have.”

“Yes,” Arthur whispers. “Haven’t been able to imagine much else since I,” Arthur trails off, stumbling between _walked in on you_ and _ran off_. A waiter with a tray of tiny cream puffs veers toward them, just to back away at Arthur’s sharp glare. “Since I saw you.”

“Could have fooled me,” Eames mutters, his hands in his pockets. 

Arthur cringes. “Annie told me you’d be here.”

“I may have been forewarned as well.” A ghost of a smile plays over Eames’s lips.

“Glad you still came.” Arthur swallows, his throat dry. “And she told me about Robert. That you two aren’t… that everything you said is true.”

Eames chews his toothpick and casts a sidelong glance at Arthur. “I don’t have a traditional life, Arthur, and I’ve no interest in having one, but you could at least have given me the chance to explain before you went haring off into the street.” 

“I owe you an apology,” Arthur says, drawing on the courage of his glass of wine and every empty night he’s spent since he shut Eames out. “I should have listened to you. I just… I _couldn’t_.”

Over the mill of the crowd, Eames draws in a sharp breath. “I’m a lot of things, Arthur. Unabashed sexual deviant, decent cook, piss-poor at maths,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “But I’m not a liar.” The hurt in Eames’s voice is palpable. 

Arthur swallows the hard lump in his throat. “It’s just—this is all new to me. I don’t know what’s normal and what I’m supposed to just _understand_. I was so excited to see you, and it was like walking in on some sick parody of what I wanted, with your shirt off and a fucking cane in your hand.”

“It was a crop, actually. One of the two dozen I’d made that morning to ship off to LA. See, I’d been working like a mad man to get all my orders finished early. I had a date with this lovely boy, wanted to make sure I was completely free.” Eames turns to him, toothpick rolling back to the other side of his mouth. “When I give something my attention, Arthur, I don’t do it by halves.”

Eames is closer to him now, close enough that Arthur could pluck that toothpick out of his mouth in one easy motion. Eames does it for him, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

“And just for the record, the options for heat in my flat are Satan’s fiery arsehole or nuclear winter; no in-between with those old radiators. That’s why I had my shirt off, I barely wear pants once Yusuf turns the heat on. And I wouldn’t touch Robert with a wet-wipe without his wife’s permission, let alone a crop.”

Arthur can still feel the cloying heat as he’d climbed Eames’s stairs.

Eames shakes his head. “I wanted to phone you. Or send you flowers or chocolates or something dramatic. But you had this look, like I was something terrible. I couldn’t get it out of my head. And I didn’t want to push any more than I already had.”

The crowd moves around them, silently parting and clustering at their periphery as Eames stands stone-still next to Arthur. 

“My last relationship didn’t end well,” Arthur blurts, glancing down at his feet. “He cheated on me, a lot. And I’d take him back and we’d try some version of being ‘open’ or ‘ethically non-monogamous’ or whatever shit he’d found on Reddit that week, but it always ended the same. With him lying, and it somehow meaning there was something wrong with me.”

“He sounds like a right bastard,” Eames observes. “Let me guess, he was good in bed when he wasn’t being a right bastard?”

Arthur snorts softly. “He really was. And I don’t think I realized how much it fucked me up. I’m sorry that I just assumed you were the same.”

“And I’m sorry, too, Arthur. It didn’t even occur to me to mention Robert. I forget what’s normal, too, yeah? You live in a bubble of happy perverts long enough, it can be easy to forget what things look like from the outside. I can imagine it would be unsettling to see _that_ in a ruffly apron if you didn’t know better.” Eames gestures at Robert’s face with the toothpick. “I mean, look at him, he’s bloody gorgeous, we can all objectively admit that. And criminally heterosexual.”

Arthur shakes his head. “If he won’t go gay for you, there’s no chance for the rest of us.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, darling.” Eames’s smile is slow as he steps closer to Arthur. “You really liked me with my shirt off?”

Arthur welcomes the flush that spreads up from his chest. It’s the first time he’s been warm in weeks. “I’d have to get another look to answer that definitively.”

Eames steps closer to him, and for one desperate moment Arthur wants to bare his neck to Eames, throw himself at Eames’s feet until everything in his head goes quiet. 

“I want to show you something.” Eames puts his hand out, offering it to him. Arthur slips his hand into Eames’s and suddenly, Arthur’s back in Eames’s studio, closing his eyes against the lightning strike of Eames’s skin against his. Eames squeezes his hand, firm enough to make Arthur sigh.

A low-grade itch had settled under Arthur’s skin after his fight with Eames. Like static, or the hum of the refrigerator, it had settled into background noise in his mind, buzzing away no matter how hard he threw himself into his runs or his work. As Eames leads him by the hand, a calm he hadn’t known to miss settles over him. 

Eames leads him past two more portraits—one of two women curled around each other in the bath, another of a man about to flick his cigar into his partner’s open mouth—to the only solo image Arthur’s seen so far. It’s cropped to show nothing but a man’s thighs and lower torso, so encased in rope it takes Arthur a moment to realize that the image is upside down. Or rather, the subject is.

White rope criss-crosses over his spread thighs, rising up to disappear out of frame. It’s architectural, fanning out from his body like a stained-glass window. Arthur follows the delicate loops and knots that caress his hips and snug around his waist. The line between man and rope is so blurred Arthur’s eyes pass over his cock at first, wrapped as it is. Thinner rope separates his testicles, stretching them meanly apart. The head of his cock peeks out from a tight column of rope, decoratively knotted along the base. 

_It’s CBT,_ Arthur’s brain helpfully supplies, dashing back to the frantic research Arthur had done before his date with Eames. He’d ticked “Interested” for that one. He shifts, aware of Eames’s steady presence beside him. 

“Did you do this?”

“No. But I could.” Eames’s arm is pressed to his, warm even through the brushed wool of Arthur’s jacket. Arthur stares at the picture, transfixed by the pearlescent bead of precome balancing from the subject’s suspended slit. It’s moments from falling to the floor, just as Robert’s tears had been moments from spilling down his cheeks. Saito has an eye for the tipping point.

“It’s beautiful,” Arthur says, tingling with an old, familiar swell of yearning. 

“I’m going to buy it.” Eames brings his hands up, framing the image between his spread palms. “Now what would you think of this, hanging in my bedroom?”

Arthur turns to face Eames. “I’ve never seen your bedroom.”

“No, but you’ve been haunting it, haven’t you?” Eames’s eyes bore down on Arthur. Eames is impossibly beautiful when he’s earnest. “I haven’t slept a night without thinking of you, Arthur. You’re there when I close my eyes and you’re there when I stare at the ceiling and wonder if you were just some exceptionally vivid dream.”

“I am wide awake.” And maybe it’s not how these things are done, maybe he’s dashing everything against the rocks before it’s even had a chance to set sail, but he grabs Eames by the collar and kisses him, madly, clinging to Eames as he offers his own silent apology. 

Eames molds against him, clutching his hands to Arthur’s back and pulling him close. Arthur can feel the outline of Eames’s harness under his shirt, hard leather and metal under the soft fabric. 

“I want to see your bedroom, Eames. I want to see everything,” Arthur says, tucking his hands into Eames’s shirt, sinking his fingers into Eames’s heat behind the harness. 

Eames kisses him before pulling away to cradle Arthur’s cheek in his palm. Arthur presses into it, feline, greedy for all the warmth his stubborn pride has cost him. 

“I’ll never lie to you, Arthur. I’ll never ask more of you than you can give. But I will take everything you’ll give me. I’ll take it all.”

There are people watching them. Politely, under eyelashes and over the rims of their drinks, but watching nonetheless. Arthur’s skin prickles. 

Arthur slides his lips to Eames’s hand, seeking out his finger. He finds the soft pad of Eames’s thumb with his canine and presses, digging the point of his tooth in until Eames hisses his name. Arthur swipes his tongue over the rough moon of Eames’s fingernail. 

“So take it,” Arthur says, raising his chin in a dare, in an invitation. A storm flits across Eames’s face. Arthur wants to chase it full-sail. 

“Christ,” Eames swears. He licks his lips and curls his hand over the back of Arthur’s head. He kisses Arthur softly, sighing into his mouth and darting his tongue over the point of Arthur’s tooth. 

“If you bite me again, I’m taking you over my knee,” Eames says after he pulls back, soft and dangerous. His eyes flash as Arthur snaps his front teeth together and grins. 

“Promise?”

They wend their way through the crowd, earning a trail of appreciative glances behind them. Eames nods and smiles at a few of the other guests, and stops to kiss a woman’s hand. Mistress Nadia, Arthur recognizes, too far gone for his cheeks to heat up any further. She’s standing with Saito, one black-gloved hand slipped easily through his elbow. They accept Eames’s sincere regrets that he must leave early due to “an urgent disciplinary matter.” 

She arches a pencilled eyebrow at Arthur before smiling at Eames. “This one needs a firm hand.”

Arthur’s stomach does gymnastic things as Eames hums in agreement. 

“One day, I will get you in my studio, Mr. Eames,” says Saito, offering both him and Arthur a firm handshake. 

Annie and Ariadne are sharing a cluster of grapes in front of a portrait of two women in bows playing with a length of string. The subjects have matching collars with bells on them. 

“Wouldn’t Ariadne look cute with a little bell?” Annie asks. Ariadne blushes beside her, somewhere between furious and immensely pleased. 

“Fetching,” Eames agrees, offering them both a kiss on the hand before Annie slaps him away and gives him a hug. 

“If you two aren’t leaving together, _I’m_ going to wear a fucking bell,” Annie says, popping a grape in her mouth. 

“My apprentice, ladies and gentlemen,” Eames announces, stealing one of Annie’s grapes for himself and winking slyly at her. He accepts a matching hug from Ariadne before she turns to Arthur. 

“You worked it out?” she whispers in his ear as she hugs him. 

“Yeah,” Arthur says, “and thanks. For the haircut. And everything.”

Ariadne nods. “You are going to tell me everything over brunch. _Everything_ ,” she says, pitching her voice down as she glances over at Annie. “He’s teaching her all his tricks. I need some insider information.”

“I’ll do my best,” Arthur promises. He’d do anything for her. Her face lights up as Annie slinks over to Arthur, looking well pleased with herself. 

“I won’t let her send a search party until 48 hours have passed.” She hugs Arthur, stooping down in her high heels. 

“Thank you,” Arthur whispers in her ear. 

“Be gentle with him?” Annie says, too quiet for Eames to hear. “If I have to listen to any more Kate Bush I’m going to lose my mind.”

“Don’t think I’m the one who’s in charge of gentle. Or anything,” Arthur adds, shivering at the unfamiliar thrill that runs down his spine.

“Don’t be so sure.” Annie glances softly at Eames. She clears her throat and runs a gentle finger over Arthur’s hair. “Your hair really does look lovely, Arthur.” She beams at Ariadne. 

“Shame I’ll have to mess it up,” Eames says, sneaking in close by Arthur’s side and winding his arm around Arthur’s waist. They say goodbye and he leads Arthur through the crowd, until they’re outside under the stars and streetlights. Eames kisses him, and it’s a feeling Arthur doesn’t have a name for. The thrill of the free-fall, the swoop of his stomach as he clings to the harness on Eames’s chest.

“Take me home, Mr. Eames.”

~

Eames’s apartment had magnified itself in Arthur’s memory. When he’d failed to will it out of his midnight thoughts, the ceilings had been higher, the work tables broad enough to house Arthur’s entire living room. Even the Debbie Harry poster had seemed more lurid. 

As Arthur follows Eames across the threshold, it all seems smaller, like Eames’s home has reverted back to a human scale now that Arthur’s inside it. Eames’s ordered chaos is still there, in the teeming piles of scrap leather and army of mugs filled with pencils and scissors and shiny sharp things. It still smells good, leather and chai and rolls of pulpy sketch paper all tangled up with Eames. 

Eames takes Arthur’s coat and adds it to the herd of black leather clustered on the coat rack. 

The dove-grey wool stands out like a rare bird in the near-tropical heat of Eames’s apartment. No wonder he works without a shirt on.

“Can I show you something?” Eames asks, as he takes Arthur’s jacket and folds it over the back of a bench that may have known a former life as a church pew. He takes a box from under the longer counter and rifles around in it. “I started making this after I dropped you home.”

Arthur leans against the counter top, finding space for his hands between a cluster of wood-handled instruments and a stack of rivet boxes. 

“Almost threw it in the bin, too. Couldn’t quite bring myself to do it.” Eames pulls a strip of leather out of the box and lays it carefully on the counter. It’s a perfect copy of a Nightwing domino mask, with the notable exception of any holes for his eyes. An adjustable buckle closes it in the back.

“It’s a blindfold,” Arthur murmurs, tracing his fingers over the curved edges. It’s buttery soft, with neatly-finished edges and reinforced padding on the inside. 

“I copied it from one of the books you picked out,” Eames explains, watching Arthur circle his thumb around the double-stitched rings on the inner portion. “Those are for comfort. Keeps the pressure off your eyeballs, so you don’t get a headache.”

It’s a beautiful work of craftsmanship, but it’s Eames’s attention to his comfort that makes Arthur’s heart skip in his chest. “Can I try it on?”

Eames’s eyes sparkle as he snatches the blindfold out of Arthur’s hands and tucks it into his back pocket. “Yes. When I say you can.”

A flush spreads down from Arthur’s scalp, lighting up red circles on his cheeks. He keeps his hands flat on the counter, willing a deep breath into his lungs. His throat is thick as he swallows. “Yes, Mr. Eames.”

Eames’s eyes meet his and he stalks over to Arthur’s side of the counter.

“I kept your bloody list, too,” Eames says, moving Arthur bodily by the waist to spin and face him. “Anything you’d like to change?”

“No,” says Arthur, “nothing.” He winds his arms around Eames’s neck, finding the soft skin above his shirt collar and the delicate hair at the nape of his neck.

“Pennyworth?” Eames asks, drawling Arthur’s safeword to full British detonation. Arthur nods, willing Eames to kiss him, to pick him up and fuck him right over the table, to find the frantic hum inside him and wrestle it into stillness.

“Mine’s _apricot_ ,” says Eames, his pronunciation foreign and charming to Arthur’s ears. Arthur mumbles it back as he reaches for Eames’s lips. Eames stops him, taking Arthur by the scruff of his neck until he looks Eames in the eyes.

“Do you trust me, Arthur?”

“Yes,” Arthur answers, straining against Eames’s hold. He needs to kiss Eames, now.

“You want this? You want to be good for me?” Eames’s hand sinks into his hair, tugging gently at Arthur’s scalp.

“Christ, Eames, _yes_ , come on.” It turns from a challenge to a plea before Arthur gets the last word out.

Eames’s smile spreads like honey, warm and slow as Arthur squirms in his grip. “Go in the bedroom and take your clothes off. Wait for me at the foot of the bed.”

Eames’s bedroom has taken on a mythic quality in Arthur’s imagination—a sultan’s lair full of gorgeous, willing victims, a Rococo homage to the Marquis de Sade, a lost set from one of the Hostel movies. In reality, it’s warm and inviting. Eames has an old four-poster bed with a wrought-iron canopy, an antique that would give an Anthropologie Home designer the vapors. There’s a padded bench at the foot of the bed, and an overstuffed chair in one corner that looks sinfully comfortable. Faded Aubusson area rugs cover half the pocked, ancient hardwood floor, giving Arthur somewhere soft to stand as he peels off his socks. He tucks his shoes under the chair and turns to face the far side of the room as he unbuttons his shirt. 

The art is about what he’d expected, as colorful and eclectic and sexy as the rest of Eames’s home. A Keith Haring poster that looks like it was scraped off a bathroom wall is pinned next to a framed, lustrous photograph of a rapturously grinning man with a black eye, hands held aloft in exultation as a mosh pit swirls around him. Saito’s work, if Arthur had to guess. A Basquiat print holds court over the dresser, saturated in red and gold above the dark wood. Arthur tilts his head, picturing where Eames could put his newest acquisition.

The books aren’t a surprise, but the sheer number of them is impressive. Stacks of them cover the night tables and dresser, while a mountain of ancient paperbacks threatens to topple over next to the comfortable chair. Arthur spies Vonnegut and Austen and Bell Hooks as he folds his shirt, a biography of Josephine Baker and an ancient copy of the Odyssey as he adds his undershirt to the pile. He folds his pants along the crease and smiles at _Cat Call: Reclaiming the Feral Feminine_ , which claims pride of place atop Eames’s bedside stack, in good company with a Taschen edition of Tom of Finland art and a spine-cracked _Maltese_ _Falcon_. 

Down to his boxer briefs, Arthur shifts on his bare feet. He can just hear Eames in the other room, muted noises that could be anything. The butterflies in Arthur’s stomach could tow a barge. Eames’s west wall faces out onto the river, with the drapes pulled open over the tall windows. There’s no one but the moon and the water and the distant lights of Manhattan to see him. He shucks his underwear and moves his neat stack of clothes to the top of Eames’s dresser.

He’s too nervous to be hard and he has to fight the urge to cup himself for modesty, sure somehow that Eames won’t like that. Arthur focuses on his breath, like he does before it’s his turn on stage at a con, although he isn’t half this nervous when a convention hall full of strangers is about to see him in skintight latex. Nervous isn’t even the word. Arthur vibrates, a taut string waiting for its note. He faces the door.

The floor creaks when Eames walks in. Arthur straightens up, willing his hands not to fidget at his sides.

“Very good,” Eames hums, tilting his head as he steps around Arthur, appraising him. Arthur prickles under the attention. Eames has taken off his plaid shirt, leaving him in the harness and a white ribbed undershirt that stretches taut across his broad chest. He’s barefoot in his jeans and he’s holding a tangle of stuff in his hands.

Each item lands on the bed with a dull thud. Coils of rope, honey-colored and glowing in the light; the blindfold Eames had made for him; a black leather paddle, pointed at the top and padded around the handle; condoms and lube, in quantities generous enough to make Arthur a little dizzy. 

“My God, you are beautiful,” Eames says, his hands free to run up Arthur’s sides and tug him in close. 

“May I touch you?” Arthur asks, erring on the side of asking permission, not out of any fear that Eames will reprimand him. It just feels good.

Eames’s face softens, amused. “You may,” he agrees, voice a rumble as Arthur squeezes over his biceps, sliding his hands up to Eames’s shoulders. He hooks his fingers on the leather straps bisecting his back, certain that Eames can bear all of Arthur’s weight.

“Have to make sure you’re real,” Arthur murmurs. Eames hums and kisses him, deep and purposeful, tongue and teeth all set to claim. 

“I’m going to tie you now,” Eames says, grabbing a hank of rope off the bed and unraveling it without looking. The rope has a pleasant, earthy smell, like fresh-mown hay. 

Eames smiles as Arthur takes a deep breath. “I like it, too.”

Eames slings the length of rope around Arthur’s chest, doubling it and feeding the loose end through. Arthur could look down to watch, but the intent look on Eames’s face is so much more pleasant. Eames’s hands are all over him, as easy and masterful as he’d been at that party, tossing and turning his rope until Arthur has decorative lines criss-crossing his chest and linking together in a pretty pattern. Eames ties it off at Arthur’s back.

“I’ve wanted to do this since I saw you,” Eames says, voice a ghost along Arthur’s ear as he settles a wrapped knot between Arthur’s shoulder blades. The ropes hum like ley lines over his skin, singing as Eames uses the loose length at his back to walk Arthur a few steps forward.

“How does this make you feel, Arthur?”

“Calm,” Arthur answers, surprised at his own certainty. Eames comes around to his front and presses his forehead to Arthur’s, clasping Arthur behind the neck. The rope inches across his skin as Arthur reaches for Eames, finding the waistband of Eames’s jeans and tugging him in. “It feels good when you touch me.”

Eames massages at his neck, hitting a spot just below Arthur’s skull that makes Arthur groan. Eames’s hands are strong, and his breath tickles over Arthur’s lips as he holds Arthur close. 

“You’re going to like this,” Eames promises, kissing Arthur before he pulls away. The blindfold dangles from his fingers, the light gleaming dully off the matte leather. Arthur’s pulse kicks up at the sight of it. A blindfold had been the first thing he’d pictured when he’d let himself think of Eames like that. It must seem tame to Eames, but the idea of giving up his sight thrills and scares Arthur in equal measure. 

There’s a Batman issue from the early nineties that’s sitting in archival storage in one of Arthur’s long boxes. It’s from the high point of the Dixon era, with the birth of Bane and all the hypermasculine steroid archetypes Arthur’s teenage psyche could barely handle when he’d bought a used copy with his after-school job money. Robin sits in a filthy pool of water, with his legs bound together and his hands tied behind his back. A white blindfold is tied over his eyes, while Bane and Killer Croc flank him in exquisitely muscular menace. 

Arthur in all his teenage fervor had jerked off to that image so many times it’s burned into his skull as Eames settles the blindfold over his eyes.

Arthur wears masks all the time. Dominoes he glues to his face with liquid latex, heavy hoods that stick to him like a second skin, old-school Zorro masks that he knots behind his head. The press of the leather against his brow bone is nothing new, but the fell swoop of his stomach as Eames buckles it carefully behind him is a surprise. Eames is as careful and exacting with this as he is with his rope, and his focused competence alone is enough to get Arthur half-hard as he stands there barefoot and decorated like a hemp-rope Hanukkah present. The padded leather seals off all the light of Eames’s bedroom until Arthur is left swimming in darkness and the scent of Eames all around him, leather and pomade and honest grit. 

The touch of Eames’s finger to his shoulder makes him jump. A thousand questions swirl in Arthur’s mind, anxious little chitters about what Eames will do next or whether Arthur’s doing what he wants, whether he should only speak when spoken to or if he should start begging now, but all of it subsides when Eames raps gently against his arm. “Hands behind your back.”

None of that matters. None of those decisions are Arthur’s to make. The simple act of breathing is responsibility enough, and Eames will tell him if he’s not doing that the way he’s supposed to, won’t he?

Arthur’s arms line up behind his back, his forearms laying atop one another in muscle memory from the last time Eames had tied him like this. Slowly, Eames builds the ropes up, winding and weaving them around Arthur’s stacked wrists. 

Eames never leaves Arthur alone. Whether it’s his hand gripping Arthur’s arm or the barest press of his hip to Arthur’s side, some part of Eames is always touching him, grounding him.

“Try to move, pet.” 

Arthur shifts his arms, trying to arch them away from his back. He can’t get far. Eames has tied his arms to the ropes criss-crossing his back. It’s comfortable for all that it’s unyielding. Arthur rolls his shoulders and twists his wrists, all under the steady presence of Eames’s hand at the curve of his hip. 

“You’re not going anywhere, are you?”

“Don’t wanna,” Arthur says, distantly amused at the slur of his words. He can hear the smile in Eames’s voice as he presses against Arthur’s side.

“Of course not. You belong like this, don’t you, Arthur?”

“Yes, Mr. Eames.” Arthur cants against him, letting his head roll to the side, and there’s Eames, kissing him and sending sparks all over Arthur’s skin as he traces the rope dancing across Arthur’s chest. Eames says things, says Arthur is _beautiful_ and _good_ and a dozen other things that blur to white noise as Eames plucks at his nipples. Arthur goes taut as a bow-string, rocking up onto his toes, his back bowing as Eames pinches at his skin just to press gentle kisses all around it. He loses track of time, of space, of anything that isn’t Eames—Eames’s mouth on his skin, kissing and biting and licking, Eames’s hands grabbing him roughly and soothing down his sides, Eames’s teeth scraping over the curve of his jaw and closing over his earlobe. 

“Stand still,” Eames orders, humming with approval as Arthur immediately freezes. Eames’s finger traces down from the dip of his collarbone, skirting past Arthur’s nipple, tickling down the ladder of his ribs, sloping down the dip of his hips and raking blunt-nailed down his thigh. Parts of his body Arthur never thought of as sensitive light up as Eames slowly moves downward. The side of his knee, the back of his calf, the tender knob of bone just above his ankle—everything Eames touches leaves him shaking and sensitive. Fever-waves of prickled skin and the mounting ache of his cock roll over him, and God, he’s so fucking hard. Eames’s hand closes around his ankle.

“Very good, Arthur,” Eames’s voice drifts up. He must be on the floor, crouched at Arthur’s feet. Eames grabs his other ankle and urges his legs apart until Arthur’s standing with his feet slightly less than hip-width. Rope coils around his right ankle, and Eames presses a kiss to Arthur’s knee as he tucks and weaves it in a tight cinch. Rope has its own language, the hisses and slides and gentle _thwicks_ that fill the air as Eames does something between his feet. The tail ends of the rope tickle over the tops of Arthur’s feet, grazing over his skin as Eames places a matching restraint around Arthur’s left ankle. 

He’s trying so hard to be still but he can’t help it, can’t stop himself from rolling the barest bit to the sides of his feet so he can feel the catch at his ankles. This rope might be thicker than the one around his wrists, or maybe it’s just wrapped more. It holds Arthur tight, that’s what matters. 

“Going somewhere?” Eames’s voice is amused, and Arthur can’t help but smile. He shakes his head _No_ , sinking back to stillness. 

Eames kisses up the side of Arthur’s thigh, dragging his tongue into the indent next to his quadricep. Arthur fights the instinct to jump as Eames drags over the crease of his thigh, breathing warm over the tender skin where his abdomen begins. Eames traces the dip of his abs and noses into the neat thatch of hair above his cock, scenting him shamelessly. Arthur swallows, trembling as a drop of precome oozes out of him. 

“So sensitive,” Eames murmurs against his skin, tracing his tongue so close to the root of Arthur’s cock that Arthur moans.

Eames’s breath rushes out in a soft exhale, folding warm around the slick head of Arthur’s cock. Sparks light up Arthur’s blacked-out vision. It’s already better than half the blowjobs Arthur’s gotten in his life. His cock twitches against the empty air, and fuck, Arthur’s going to come if Eames so much as touches him there.

“None of that,” Eames chides. He grabs Arthur’s balls and tugs, enough to make Arthur dance up onto his toes. He huffs, frustrated, alight, alive. Arthur clenches his jaw and rolls his arms against their restraint, grounding himself. It’s warm in Eames’s room but Eames’s hand burns against him, hot and strong between his legs. Eames could hurt him and Arthur would be helpless to stop it. Another drop of precome wells up as Arthur digs his fingertips into his elbows.

“You come when I say you do.” Eames flicks his tongue over the slit of Arthur’s cock, sharp and swift. It’s only a fraction of a second, but the broken noise Arthur makes lasts three times as long. His stomach contracts, reeling with the effort of staying upright. Even the modest discomfort of Eames’s grip on his balls morphs into pleasure as Arthur steadies himself. Eames kneads at him, one finger inching back to press against his taint. Arthur’s mouth goes slack. He’s always been sensitive there, and of course Eames knows this. Eames holds him for the span of a heartbeat, enough to let Arthur’s breathing settle. Arthur’s head spins when Eames releases him.

There’s a small shuffle of sound, a rush of air against his skin. Eames lets out a breath and then he’s kissing Arthur, so suddenly it takes Arthur a moment to recognize the salty taste of his own precome on Eames’s tongue. Arthur moans, delighted, giving chase with his tongue as Eames groans his approval. He tastes good in Eames’s mouth.

“Come with me, pet.” Eames wraps one hand into the rope webbing across Arthur’s chest, his knuckles digging into Arthur’s skin. He urges Arthur forward, murmuring encouragement as Arthur takes a few tentative steps towards Eames. 

He’s hobbled. Arthur can only take tiny, mincing steps, awkward things that threaten to upend him with every inch. Eames’s fingers throb against him like a heartbeat, tucked snug behind the rope. Eames won’t let him fall. 

He follows Eames, trusting him not to let him trip over anything. Eames’s room isn’t overly large, but Arthur loses all sense of space as Eames urges him around in a circle. He could be in the Milky Way, he could be in the middle of Yankee Stadium for all he cares. Eames brings him to a stop and disentangles his fingers from the rope binding Arthur’s chest.

“You’ve been so good, Arthur.” Eames kisses him just to step away, leaving Arthur swaying, unmoored without Eames touching him. _He’ll be good, he’ll be so good._ Arthur focuses on the tightrope of his breath, the hiss of the radiator in the distance, the pulse of his body against Eames’s rope. Something rustles, followed by a soft clink, before Eames takes a breath Arthur can hear.

“Do you remember? What you asked me for?” Eames sounds so close. Arthur tilts his head towards him on instinct, centering his universe to Eames’s voice.

“Yes,” Arthur nods. He remembers. He shivers as he’s thrown back to the bathroom stall, metal cold against his skin as Eames had spanked him. He’d begged for more then, and it’s only the shock of Eames’s body against him that stops Arthur from begging again.

Where Eames had been in his jeans and a tank top before, he’s all bare skin against Arthur now, legs brushing against Arthur’s, his chest pressing warm to Arthur’s front. Arthur molds himself against Eames, rolling as best he can in his bound state to find every inch of skin Eames offers him. Eames is so warm, and soft, from the downy hairs on his legs to the gentle resistance of his belly against Arthur. Arthur rolls his hips and frowns, finding fabric where he needs to feel Eames’s cock, needs all of him.

Eames cups his cheek and kisses him tenderly on the forehead. “Tell me. Tell me what you need, darling.”

“Spank me,” Arthur whispers, turning into the warm press of Eames’s hand to his cheek. With Eames soft and warm and sure around him, something daring rumbles up in his chest, some ghost of the child who questioned all his teachers and drove his Bubbe out of her mind. He finds Eames’s mouth, finds the impossible swell of Eames’s lower lip and sucks it between his teeth. It’s a gentle bite, but it makes Eames growl and curl his hands into Arthur’s hair. “You promised,” Arthur says, his face folding into a smile.

“You naughty thing,” Eames growls, and it sounds like praise. “Need to be put in your place, hm?”

“Yes, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says, letting some cheek slide into his voice. He rolls his hips until his cock grazes Eames’s underwear, each thread magnified as it drags against his overheated skin. He’s giddy, itching under his skin for it, his lips tingling and his bound hands buzzing to his fingertips. 

“You remember what to say if it’s too much?” Eames asks softly, petting through Arthur’s hair and adjusting the strap of his blindfold. 

“Yeah,” Arthur nods, grateful for the reminder that he can stop everything, but eager for the chance to push himself nonetheless. 

“Good boy,” Eames purrs, a phrase Arthur is growing fond of. He’s never needed anyone’s approval but somehow, Eames’s praise hits him in all the right places. Arthur melts into Eames’s hands as he guides them both down, with one hand on Arthur’s wrists and one firmly on his ass.

He ends up sideways over Eames’s lap, bare-assed and awkward as he tries to move. Arthur was never spanked as a child but there’s something fundamentally humiliating about it, how belittled he is across the breadth of Eames’s thighs. Arthur’s not sure his dick has ever been this hard.

Arthur huffs as Eames adjusts Arthur’s legs for him, planting them squarely on the soft surface. Arthur turns his cheek against the tufted microfiber of what must be the bench at the foot of Eames’s bed, roomy enough for both of them. It’s the perfect size for Arthur to splay over Eames’s legs, with enough friction against his skin that Arthur can push his ass up in the air if he braces his knees. It’s the same feeling that comes alive when he walks the stage at a con or makes a dramatic entrance to an after-party, that free, heady rush of presenting himself, shameless and proud all at once. 

“Arthur,” Eames coos, snuffing out the Rs like he owns them. He trails his fingers up Arthur’s thighs, across the small of his back, over the flexed curve of his hip. Arthur’s squirming by the time Eames presses over the muscle of his ass, digging his fingers in.

“This is the only way you get to come tonight, Arthur.” Arthur’s entire body jerks as Eames smacks him on the full curve of his ass. Arthur’s teeth drag against fabric as he moans, open-mouthed. Heat rises and spreads over him, bringing his breath in raspy shocks as he inches his knees up to regain his posture. “If you’re going to bite me like a little beast, you can rut yourself off like one, too.”

 _Fuck_. Arthur shudders as Eames lands a quick series of slaps, starting at the crest of his ass and creeping toward the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. Arthur’s legs snap shut on instinct, which only gets him another wicked blow.

“Open your fucking legs.” Eames grabs a thigh and forces them apart, fingers digging into the meat of Arthur’s leg. Arthur had ticked a big happy check mark next to “Bruises,” and he grinds his cock against Eames’s leg at the thought of the livid marks Eames will leave behind. Each slap of Eames’s hand brings Arthur’s blood up, hot and stinging. 

Arthur knows he’s not the biggest guy. Despite his commitment to martial arts and dead certainty he could best most of the men he’s ever slept with, it had been few and far between of his partners who had ever been rough enough with him. It’s probably why he’d stuck with goddamned Nash for so long, who would at least fuck Arthur like he wasn’t some delicate forest creature.

Eames hits him so hard Arthur’s teeth clack together. The impact runs through his whole body, curling his toes and digging his fingers into his own flesh. Arthur arches back for it, straining and scrabbling at the bench with his knees, wrenching his shoulders as he tries to gain purchase. His hands are tingling behind his back, and his cock is raw from rutting against Eames’s quadricep, slippery and oversensitive, not that it stops Arthur from grinding it against Eames whenever he gets a second’s reprieve. 

“Let’s see how you like this,” Eames says, his voice maddeningly calm compared to the throb of Arthur’s heart in his throat. Eames shifts, flexing under Arthur, torso turning and the muscles of his stomach tensing against Arthur’s side. Eames is thick, that’s the only word for him. Arthur turns his neck, pressing his other cheek to the cushioned seat as Eames rustles around above him. His blindfold hasn’t moved, still snug and comfortable across his eyes. 

Something smooth and cool touches Arthur’s skin. Arthur goes still, his breath filling his chest. The paddle. Eames holds it against him, letting the leather warm to his skin, letting Arthur’s pulse quicken as he waits for it. 

What had Eames said, _‘A paddle can really make a boy sing?’_ Arthur doesn’t sing when Eames brings it down resoundingly hard against his ass, but just curses out a strangled _“Oh, God,”_ and almost bucks off Eames’s lap. Eames is apparently perfectly prepared for this, planting his elbow in between Arthur’s shoulder blades and holding him down as he does it again. It’s so different from Eames’s hand, deeper and more blunt, sending a _crack_ through the air that bounces off Arthur’s heightened senses. Each thud of the leather against his skin crashes over Arthur like a wave, blinding him to everything but Eames—his next strike, the warmth of his body against Arthur, his hand holding Arthur in place. Where Arthur had arched back and met Eames’s hand, he surrenders now, boneless in Eames’s lap except for the twitch of his hips. 

Part of Arthur disappears. There’s nothing but his body, floating in space, tethered by the rhythmic strikes of Eames’s paddle. Arthur moans for it, ugly, wordless noises that would shame him in the real world. Here, it doesn’t matter. Arthur just has to take it, nothing more, nothing less. Eames’s words drift down to him, praise and encouragement, marvel at how well he’s doing, _That’s it, darling, take it for me_. It hurts, sure, but the wave of what comes after each strike feels so good. Arthur’s skin is alive, electric and thrumming, coursing with energy that settles at the base of his spine. His cock throbs, trapped between his belly and Eames’s leg, slick with Arthur’s arousal and their mingled sweat. 

“Eames, I’m, _fuck,_ ” Arthur barely manages, his words slurred where he’s drooling against the bench. He’s humping against Eames in earnest, hard enough to set his teeth on edge and get him rolling his eyes behind his blindfold. The hard burst of Eames’s paddle edges him toward the finish line, but it’s his “Good boy, Arthur,” that pushes him over the edge. Arthur comes at the second crack of the paddle, spilling all over Eames’s leg and his own stomach. It’s messy and strange and so much better than anything Arthur has ever felt.

Eames’s hands are all over him, rubbing at the pins and needles in his hands, sloping possessively down the bent curve of Arthur’s neck, tracking over the radiant heat of his ass. Arthur slumps against him, content to feel Eames’s touch and the heart-throb of his own body. The chills that had rolled over him settle down to a gentle hum that spreads out from his backside. He’s lazy and energized all at once, the way he feels after a good yoga class or a satisfying sparring bout— _good_ tired _._ He stretches out across Eames’s lap, smiling as Eames’s cock presses into his stomach.

“How do you feel, Arthur?” Eames traces a fingernail down the dip of Arthur’s spine.

“Like I want to get fucked,” Arthur slurs, smiling sideways as he turns his face as far as he can toward Eames. He arches his back for emphasis, earning him a light slap on the ass and a soft snort from Eames.

“Get on the floor.”

Arthur’s muzzy-headed as he oozes down in between Eames’s legs. Eames helps him, effortlessly strong as he eases Arthur’s legs down to the floor. The room spins in the darkness, making Arthur list toward the solidity of Eames’s knee. Eames rights him with two hands on his shoulders, warm and sure as he hums at Arthur. “That’s it, darling.”

The rug digs into his knees, but Eames kisses him as Arthur unconsciously turns up his face like a leaf to the sun. It’s lovely, to seek blindly for something and find it waiting. Eames traces over the pointed edges of the blindfold, the shell of Arthur’s ear, the swell of his bottom lip. Arthur chases after him, licking his lips and straining forward to try and brush himself against Eames’s cock again. Eames clicks his tongue and sinks his hand into Arthur’s hair.

“You’ve made a mess, Arthur.” Eames guides him by his hair until Arthur can smell it, the salt-scent of his own come on Eames’s skin. Arthur will own up to a certain fastidiousness in his appearance, an appreciation for order and cleanliness that’s led many people to the erroneous assumption that he’s prudish in bed. It’s a fun supposition to upend, although Eames seems more satisfied than surprised when Arthur eagerly drags his tongue through his own mess.

Eames’s hand never leaves his hair, a firm reminder of who’s in charge as Arthur licks up a sticky stripe of his own come. He tries to make it pretty, tries to angle his head so Eames can see, because Arthur is _so_ far from done. He doesn’t stop until all he can taste is the clean salt of Eames’s skin, and then he starts again until he tongues over the hem of Eames’s underwear, boxer-briefs by the feel of them. He mouths along the firm muscle of Eames’s thigh, finding his way blindly toward Eames’s cock. Arthur noses against it, slack-jawed, dragging his bottom lip along the outline. Eames is hard, so hard Arthur can feel his heat through the fabric.

“Is that what you want, Arthur?” Eames asks, spreading his legs wider and releasing his grip on Arthur’s hair. Arthur hums his answer, finding the head of Eames’s cock through his shorts and sucking on the fiber. He lets his saliva seep into it, distantly hoping that Eames has worn a gray pair. They’ll look better wet. “Get after it, then.” 

Arthur’s hands are still bound behind his back. He can’t see anything and his ass throbs a brilliant red every time he moves. So much of this is new to Arthur, a dizzying height that he can’t quite peek over the crest of, but he knows how to do this. This is one of Arthur’s favorite things, feeling how hard he can get someone, teasing out the huffs and moans and chinks in his armor. He’s sloppy without the aid of his hands, mouthing blindly for the slit of Eames’s underwear. 

Eames tuts at him as Arthur uses his teeth to peel apart the overlapped fly, a warning that Arthur doesn’t need. He’s careful, gentling the fabric and bunching it aside inch by inch, growling in frustration when he loses some of his progress and has to start again. Eames laughs softly, but Arthur is determined. Arthur’s never wanted anything so badly in his life. The frustration is part of it, a whetstone for his desire, a challenge he can’t resist. Arthur will always choose _Dare_ over _Truth_.

The first swipe of Eames’s bare skin against his tongue floods him with triumph. For all the times he’d imagined this, Eames’s groan as Arthur works his cock out with the wet suction of his lips is a thousand times better. 

“Clever boy,” Eames says, the deep tone of his voice doing nothing to hide the sharp inhale he makes when Arthur frees the head and closes his lips around it. Arthur always loses himself in this, the slow slide of a cock into his mouth, the tethered resistance of his throat opening. Tears eke out from behind his blindfold, but those don’t matter. Even breathing is secondary to impressing Eames. Arthur works him down, wet and greedy, forcing himself to swallow as he takes Eames’s cock past the ghost of his gag reflex.

“Jesus, Arthur,” Eames curses, thighs flexing against Arthur’s shoulders. Arthur bobs his head, lets himself hum, ignores the ache in his neck as he steadies himself without his hands to help him. It’s hard to get the angle right. Eames’s hand lands on his shoulder as Arthur staggers to one side.

“Want your hands,” Arthur pleads, his words half-garbled with Eames’s cock against his tongue. “Please.”

“I’m going to fuck your throat raw, Arthur.” Eames’s hand sinks into his hair, fisting tight. “Everyone you speak to will know what a good little cocksucker you are.”

Arthur’s hard again so fast it hurts. Eames slips one hand under his jaw and squeezes, prying Arthur’s mouth open as he pulls Arthur onto his cock. Arthur goes limp in his hands, letting one shoulder lean against Eames’s thigh, gurgling and coughing as Eames pumps into his throat in earnest. Arthur’s knees slide against the rug, rubbed red and raw like the rest of him, from the electric heat of his ass to the hacking throb of his throat as Eames forces him breathless. A rope of spit chases Eames’s cock when he pulls out, slinking down to Arthur’s chest. It’s warm. Arthur sticks his tongue out, drooling, an invitation that Eames takes with measured inches. He pulls Arthur down to make him gag, just to let him heave for breath and drool around the heavy weight of Eames’s cock on his lip.

“Messy fucking thing you are,” Eames says, his voice rough. Where it would sound like an insult from someone else, Eames makes it sound like an accolade. Arthur’s cock lies full and neglected against his leg, bouncing as Eames fucks his face. Sweat trickles from Arthur’s temples, from the bent curve of his elbows, the hollows behind his knees. His face burns against the leather of his blindfold. 

Salty, earthy, warm and close, the gentle curls of Eames’s pubic hair tickle at his nose, soaked in Arthur’s spit. Arthur’s breath is ragged, cracked, hardly even his own as Eames moves faster, his fingers digging into the base of Arthur’s skull. Arthur’s barely holding himself up, free in Eames’s hands. There’s nothing but Eames’s cock in his mouth and the blank, open space of his own head, a zero-gravity state Arthur’s never known. It’s a strange kind of quiet, punctuated with the wet sounds of Arthur’s over-worked mouth and the harsh, bitten-off praise Eames gives him. 

“Earned this, didn’t you?” Eames’s hand pries his mouth open, digging into the hinge of Arthur’s jaw. Slick, cock-wrung spit spills onto Eames’s fingers, soaking everything before Eames washes it all away. He floods onto Arthur’s tongue, warm and welcome as Arthur swallows desperately. His throat is raw and the muscles of his jaw throb, and every last inch of Arthur’s body is alive. His toes curl and his tongue chases after the last salt-drip from Eames’s cock.

And then Eames is on the floor and kissing him and Arthur forgets how to breathe. Eames licks into his mouth, soothing over the hot throb of Arthur’s tongue and plucking at Arthur’s swollen lips with his teeth. It’s rough and possessive, as much a claim as a balm. Arthur’s cock throbs when Eames presses against him.

There’s something about getting kissed right after he’s sucked someone off. It’s a gaze into the abyss, an affirmation that even though Arthur’s a filthy mess, Eames likes him that way. 

“What do you say?” Eames shakes him, his hand hard on Arthur’s chin.

“Thank you, Mr. Eames,” Arthur sighs, and Eames kisses him again. Has Arthur ever been kissed this much? Not like this, certainly.

Eames’s fingers fly over the ropes at Arthur’s wrists, freeing him. Pins and needles prickle at his skin as Eames rubs at his wrists and elbows. Eames releases the rope at Arthur’s feet before he hauls Arthur up, and even if Arthur hobbles along with Eames, he knows that Eames would gladly bear his weight if Arthur couldn’t.

Arthur’s legs back up against something soft—the bed? He’s too busy touching Eames to take much notice. It’s like his hands have never been this _awake_ before. Eames’s body is a landscape unto itself, warm skin and firm muscle and soft hair that Arthur hasn’t properly appreciated until now. Eames does nothing to deter him, keeping them pressed together as he gets Arthur bounced onto his back on the bed.

“I want to see you,” Eames says, trailing one finger over the strap of Arthur’s blindfold. Arthur nods. Eames holds his neck in one hand and slips the other behind Arthur’s head, deftly undoing the buckle of the blindfold. 

“Careful,” Eames warns. “Don’t open your eyes until you’re ready.” He slides the blindfold off Arthur’s face and kisses the bridge of his nose, the apples of his cheeks, the slope of his brow bone. 

Arthur blinks and immediately squints his eyes against the light. Even the soft glow of Eames’s distant floor lamp is bright to his eyes after so long in the blindfold. Eames kisses at his neck, nips along his jaw, ducks down to suck one of Arthur’s nipples between his teeth as Arthur adjusts to the light. He traces his fingers over the rope still laddering across Arthur’s chest as he leans up onto his elbow.

“Hello there,” Eames whispers, and it seems impossible that he’s gotten four times more handsome since the last time Arthur saw him, and yet. Amused, tender, attentive—Eames’s eyes are soft as he smiles down at Arthur. “Tell me how you’re feeling, Arthur.”

Arthur doesn’t have words for how he’s feeling. Exultant. Electric. Like someone cut the ropes on his trapeze and he’s free-falling without a net. Like he could fly.

“Like I still need you to fuck me,” Arthur says, gravel in his voice and grit in his hips as he grinds up against Eames. He hooks a leg around Eames’s thigh and circles his hips, wanton. Eames’s sheets are soft against his back, a contrast to the steady scratch of the rope against his skin. Eames is heavy on top of him, his warm bulk pressing Arthur into the mattress. Eames is still wearing his fucking underwear, which is a crime, so Arthur digs his heel into the waistband of it and tries to ruck it down. He needs Eames inside him, all over him, needs him to pull Arthur under until he can’t come up for air.

“Do you know what I thought when I met you, Arthur?” Eames asks, grabbing Arthur’s foot behind his back. He peels Arthur’s leg away and smiles at the frustrated noise Arthur makes.

“God Bless America?” Arthur says, bucking his hips up, undeterred from his mission to get Eames naked and inside him, not necessarily in that order.

“This boy will be insatiable. He’ll be the death of me.” In the low light, Eames’s eyes gleam, a dozen colors Arthur can’t name. As if Arthur could extinguish anything in Eames.

Arthur narrows his eyes. _“La petite mort, peut-être?”_

“French,” Eames scoffs. “That’s just cheating.” He shakes his head as he hooks his hand under Arthur’s knee.

Arthur had imagined how hot it would be to let Eames take him like this, how dangerous and thrilling and seductive. He hadn’t guessed how much fun it would be. He howls a laugh as Eames flips him onto his stomach, smothering it into the pillow as he arches his hips up invitingly. 

Eames folds over him, his lips brushing against Arthur’s ear. “Come to think of it, that was my second thought. My first was that I want to eat your arse until you cry.” 

Eames starts at the top of his spine and doesn’t stop until his tongue is dragging just above Arthur’s tailbone. His hands curl up and over Arthur’s hips, slotting in to tug him back. He nudges his shoulders against Arthur’s thighs, spreading him wider. Eames has an easy propriety with his body, settling him just so, palming Arthur’s ass open to breathe hot over his skin. 

Eames licks into him and Arthur’s blind all over again, lit up from the inside until all he can see are sparks. As desperate as he’d been for Eames’s cock, Arthur forgets anything but his mouth in the span of a minute. Eames is a genius at this. He works his tongue into Arthur’s body in slow, measured strokes, teasing until Arthur’s shaking and grinding back against him. 

Arthur doesn’t have tears in his eyes, but he’s crying Eames’s name by the time Eames sinks two fingers into him. Eames doesn’t let up with his tongue, licking between his fingers and sucking kisses around them until Arthur’s got spit leaking down his balls. Arthur only knows Eames is using lube because it’s colder when it hits his skin, replaced quickly by the three-finger ache of Eames inside him. 

“Please,” Arthur begs, “please, I need it.” Arthur knows himself. He’s prepped enough and he wants the burn.

“I know, love,” Eames says, sinking his fingers down to the knuckle one last time. Arthur flexes around him and whines as Eames curls his fingers. “I know what you need.”

Arthur closes his eyes. There’s a wet drop of lube, the snap of a condom. The bed shifts as Eames lines himself up and then he’s pressing into Arthur, slow enough to be safe but not by much. Heat flares all over him, a quick burn that settles into static as Eames sinks into him. Arthur couldn’t speak if he really _were_ on fire, can barely remember where he is, only that it’s where he should be. He claws at the sheets and moans into Eames’s pillow, animal sounds that tear out of his chest as Eames starts to pound into him. 

Eames’s hands are firm on his hips, clamping Arthur in place so hard that Arthur’s own knees held up under him are an afterthought. It’s like Eames has guessed all of Arthur’s favorite things about getting fucked and tripled them. He’s fast and rough, knocking Arthur’s breath out of his lungs and smacking his ass the few times Arthur manages to catch his legs back under himself. Arthur makes noises he’d be ashamed of if he had half his brain left, but that’s presumably leaked onto the sheets along with Arthur’s own steady stream of precome.

“Want to see you,” Eames growls, bottoming out before he pulls out and leaves Arthur gasping.

Eames throws him onto his back and climbs between Arthur’s spread legs. He thumbs his cock back in and leans down over Arthur, pressing inside him easily. Arthur’s dick throbs against his stomach, grazing wet against his skin as Eames settles inside him and raises himself to rest on his hands.

He fucks Arthur slowly, so slowly it’s almost mean. He grinds his hips in tight circles, his eyes never leaving Arthur’s. Arthur’s so full, aching with each thrust of Eames’s hips, his breath coming in short, tight huffs. He wraps his hands around Eames’s arms, just to feel the flex of his biceps. Eames smells so good, sweaty and warm against him. He’s flushed all over, a collar that blooms onto his cheeks. 

“You’re fucking gorgeous, Arthur.” Eames leans down to press his forehead to Arthur’s. They share a breath, as deep and slow as the roll of Eames’s hips. 

“Fuck, I want to come, I’m close,” Arthur pants. His hand slides down between them, reaching for his cock. He’s so fucking close.

Eames jerks his hand away. “What did I say?” He threads his hand over Arthur’s wrist and brings it over his head. Arthur brings his other arm up and lets Eames catch both his wrists, slotting easily into Eames’s grip. The stretch opens his chest, spreads his ribs apart as Eames bears down on him. Arthur’s legs wrap around Eames, as high up as he can get them. 

“You’re going to come, Arthur, but you’re not touching your cock,” Eames says. He’s close enough for Arthur to count the beads of sweat on his forehead, the flecks of gold in his eyes. He hitches a hand behind Arthur’s knee and pushes his leg up until it’s flush with Arthur’s chest. The angle hits Arthur better, closer.

“Kiss me, kiss me,” Arthur begs, husky and rough. He doesn’t have enough give to lean his head up, but Eames curls over him and presses their mouths together.

Arthur’s cock is trapped between them, in a mess of his own precome and sweat. Two strokes of his or Eames’s hand would bring him right off, _fuck,_ a flick of Eames’s tongue would do it. Arthur squeezes his eyes shut. He’s not allowed. The tension eases out of Arthur, lets him fall back into the cradle of Eames’s hands holding him down. _He’s not allowed._

Arthur’s consciousness sinks into his body. Eames’s hand is tight around his wrists, firm under his knee. Eames’s mouth, warm and wet against his, panting for breath as he fucks Arthur rough and steady. The wet sounds of sex, of sweaty skin sliding and the slap of Eames’s body against his. Arthur’s ass throbs from his spanking, hot and tender where Eames is slamming into him. 

“So fucking good for me,” Eames growls, rearing up to bend one of Arthur’s legs over his shoulder, then the other, until Arthur’s knees are bracketing Eames’s ears and Eames’s chest is flush with the backs of Arthur’s thighs. The change in angle hits Arthur’s prostate just right, makes him moan Eames’s name in broken syllables. 

“Eames—Eames—harder—” Arthur’s bent nearly in half, awkward and cramped. He can barely breathe, barely do anything but hold on as Eames uses him. He flexes his wrists, testing Eames’s grip on him and finding it unyielding. He can’t go anywhere. Eames fucks him so hard the bed shakes, brings his hands up to double his grip on Arthur’s wrists. Eames is heavy, pressing against him, panting hot against Arthur’s cheek. The ropes knotted across Arthur’s chest dig into him, and maybe they’ll leave marks this time.

“Want to feel you, Arthur.” Eames’s voice is hoarse as he noses into the sweaty crease of Arthur’s neck. It’s tight with Arthur’s arms over his head, but Eames finds a swathe of bare skin and sinks his teeth in, sucking hard. It’s the trip Arthur needs, that spark of pain that lights him up from the inside. 

“Oh, fuck, Eames,” Arthur gasps, “I’m gonna—”

“Do it, Arthur. Do it. Come on my cock like a good boy,” Eames says, his teeth still grazing over Arthur’s neck. Arthur seizes up under him, his toes curling as he comes all over himself. Half of it lands right on the rope harness, and Arthur grins. This rope will be his now, imbued with some part of himself down to the fiber. 

Eames fucks him through it, not changing his pace even when he rears up. Arthur’s legs slide down to frame Eames’s waist, his heels digging into Eames’s ass. Eames doesn’t speed up, he just swipes his thumb through a pool of come next to Arthur’s sternum and brings it to his mouth, closing his eyes and moaning, “Arthur.” 

“Fuck,” Arthur slurs, “oh, fuck, do that again. Please—”

Eames drags two fingers across his chest, but instead of bringing it up to his own lips, he presses them against Arthur’s mouth. 

“Take it,” Eames says roughly, his hips hitching as Arthur opens wide and lets his tongue pillow Eames’s fingers. He sucks, tracing his tongue over the whorls of Eames’s fingertips, the blunt, clean edges of his nails, the webbing between his fingers. Eames stares at him, unblinking, his lips parted and gasping as he fucks Arthur in quick, erratic bursts. It’s only when Arthur carefully bites down that Eames collapses onto him and goes rigid between his legs.

“Arthur, fuck—Arthur, you’re fucking—” Eames says, biting off the rest to pant open-mouthed against Arthur’s jaw. Arthur winds his arms around Eames’s back, wraps his legs around his waist, sure suddenly that he’ll float away if Eames lets him go. Eames shudders against him, holding Arthur even tighter. If Arthur’s a little beast, he has two backs now. Everything smells and tastes and sounds of Eames, rough and smooth all wrapped up together. Arthur nuzzles against Eames’s temple, tracing the sweat-damp strands of his hair.

Ariadne had talked him into trying a sensory deprivation chamber once. There had been a pop-up “Flotation Chamber” exhibit at Pier 17 and she’d gotten a Groupon. They’d brought their bathing suits and gone into side-by-side tanks. Arthur was surprised when they pulled him out after what felt like five minutes, only to find out it had been thirty. Time had stopped, somehow, stretched black and heavy around him. Ariadne had found it oppressive, but Arthur had felt better that day than he had in weeks. 

Eames envelops him like a pool, pulling Arthur under with kisses and murmured praise. Arthur’s mind is finally quiet. There’s no room for thoughts when every breath Eames takes against him, every movement he makes fills Arthur to the brim. Eames eases out of him and ties off the condom, tossing it God-knows-where. He gropes blindly off the side of the bed and grabs a t-shirt, a necessary sacrifice in wiping Arthur down and getting the worst of the lube off them both. 

“Onto your side, that’s it,” Eames urges, rolling Arthur as he quickly undoes the knots of his chest piece. The ropes slide against his skin, lightning-warm as Eames whips them off. Arthur stares down at his chest. Red marks criss-cross his skin, lined with the faint braiding of the rope. He traces his finger over one of them, memorizing the patterned indentations. 

“They’ll fade,” Arthur mumbles, frowning. That’s what Eames had said after he’d tied Arthur’s hands at Nadia’s. Was that only a month ago? Arthur sighs as Eames pulls him against his chest.

“Not if I put new ones there first.” Eames settles Arthur with his cheek against Eames’s collar bone and wraps one big arm around him. His fingers trace down Arthur’s back, finding a matching intaglio from his rope. He rakes his nail over it, sending a shiver up Arthur’s back. “And I will, Arthur.” 

Arthur burrows against him, soaking in the heat of Eames’s skin. Even with their breath falling back to steady and the haze of orgasm parting, Eames still runs hot. Arthur wraps his leg around Eames’s hips, tucking himself as close as he can get. Arthur’s always flexible but he’s molten like this, unhinged from the usual tension he carries in his shoulders and lower back. 

“How do you feel, Arthur?”

Like he just did every drug on earth and somehow skipped the after-crash. Like he’s never been this happy. Like he’ll die if Eames isn’t close to him.

“I’m kind of chilly,” Arthur says. Despite the heat of Eames’s room, Arthur’s skin prickles where it meets the air. Eames grabs a blanket where it’s been balled up on one side of the bed. They’ve made a mess of his sheets. They’ve made a mess of everything, if the tell-tale crackle of his own come against his skin as he moves is anything to go by. Eames pulls the blanket around them, tucking it under Arthur’s chin like he’s a preschooler. 

“It’s normal, you know, to feel a bit off-kilter,” Eames says. His voice is rich and deep where Arthur’s ear is pressed to Eames’s chest. Arthur shivers. He’s not usually this much of a cuddler, but Eames is so warm. Eames’s fingers pet through his hair and rub gently at his scalp, flushing up a whole new set of goosebumps down Arthur’s skin. “You were perfect, Arthur.”

Arthur’s never needed anyone’s approval. His teachers used to tell his Bubbe he was so self-directed, a motivated child who always exceeded his peers. It didn’t matter if everyone else in his class barely got a C+, Arthur always went for the A. Arthur’s taken care of himself since he was eighteen and he could finally put his strip-mall suburb in the rearview. He put himself through college with no one helping but his own two hands, and he never expected any praise for it. It had always seemed a weakness to crave attention.

“Perfect.” It feels _so good_ when Eames says it. Arthur tucks his chin against the frayed patchwork of Eames’s blanket and lets himself slip under. 

It could be five minutes, it could be hours. It’s still dark outside when Arthur stirs. He’d shifted in his sleep, onto his back with his head pillowed against Eames’s arm. Eames sleeps on his side, with his lips parted and a shock of hair sticking upright. Half his face is mashed into the pillow. He’s beautiful. Arthur could kiss him, kiss him and never stop. 

One eye slants open and blinks at Arthur. Eames’s face folds into a smile, and he rolls over to splay half his body over Arthur’s. “Do you always look this good when you wake up?” he says, nuzzling into Arthur’s neck as Arthur snorts. Arthur can’t imagine he looks anything less than wrecked. Eames tucks his arm around Arthur’s ribs.

“Yeah, you look like shit, too,” Arthur says, laughing as Eames blows a raspberry against his neck. He stares up past the posts of Eames’s bed to his ceiling. In the dim light from the lamp that never got turned off, the pressed-tin tiles line up like a mandala. Arthur’s eyes track over them, bleary and soft.

“I love your ceiling,” Arthur says. Eames laughs against him as Arthur smiles. “What? It’s so… symmetrical.”

“Nothing, pet. I’m glad you like it.” Eames presses a kiss to his cheek before pushing himself up, making a bear-groan and stretching his arms. “Feel like I ran a bloody marathon,” he grouses, settling himself back against the headboard. Arthur, disinclined to leave the blankets or his comfortable horizontal stretch, settles his head onto Eames’s thigh. Eames stinks of sex and animal warmth, the musk of sleep. Arthur pushes himself closer and rolls to look up at him.

“I feel fine,” Arthur says, brattish and smirking up at Eames. Eames rolls his eyes and pets at Arthur’s hair, raking it back from his forehead.

“Do you? Feel fine, that is?” Eames keeps petting him, making it too hard for Arthur to do anything except slit his eyes and nod in answer. “Do you know what drop is?”

“I read about it,” Arthur answers. It hadn’t been as exciting as the bondage videos and CBT tutorials he’d stumbled on, but Arthur had read about the after-effects of playing. An adrenaline crash that left some people feeling low. It made sense, and Arthur’s certainly felt it under other circumstances—after a big con, when he crawls out from under tax time at work. Shit, he’d probably felt it half the time he was with Nash. Arthur searches for that sick-sad feeling in the pit of his stomach and finds it quiet.

Eames circles a finger over the tip of Arthur’s ear. “It’s different for everyone. Never happens for some people, happens all the time for others. I need you to tell me if you ever feel that way. Do you promise, Arthur?”

Arthur’s instinct is to make a joke, brush this off and move on. Arthur doesn’t need pity and caretaking. But Eames’s face is so open, so concerned as he stares down at Arthur. Eames looks like it will break his heart if Arthur doesn’t swear it. Arthur is a different kind of dropped as he finds Eames’s hand and brings it to his cheek. He presses against it, lets the heat of Eames’s palm bleed into his skin. 

“Yes, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says softly. He turns to press a kiss to the inside of Eames’s wrist, where his heart beats steady and unguarded. They stay like that, with Arthur’s lips counting out the metronome of Eames’s pulse and Eames’s fingers tracing their own language into Arthur’s hair. It’s peaceful, an in-between Arthur could lurk in for hours. 

Until Eames’s stomach growls right against his ear.

“Are you hungry? I’m famished. I have Oreos,” Eames says brightly.

Arthur buries his face against Eames’s side, trying to hide his laughter. Annie hadn’t been lying.

“What’s so funny about Oreos? Best thing to come from this bloody country since rock and roll.”

“Nothing. No, I don’t want Oreos. But I’ll take some water.”

Eames gallantly tumbles out of bed and comes back with a sleeve of Oreos and a glass of ice water for Arthur, from which he takes a sip before handing over. They settle back against the headboard with Arthur tucked under Eames’s arm.

“Diner down the street’s 24-hour if you want something more substantial,” Eames rumbles between bites of cookie. He’s too cute for Arthur to chastise him about how disgusting it is to eat in bed. 

Arthur swats a cookie crumb off his nose. “I’m good. Can we just stay here? For a while?”

“You’re staying the night, Arthur,” Eames says, and it’s so final Arthur doesn’t say anything, just turns his cheek against Eames’s broad chest and closes his eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames has had more sex in the past month than in the entirety of the past two years of his life.

Eames has had more sex in the past month than in the entirety of the past two years of his life.

It’s always the quiet ones. The boys who show up with the most bluster about edge-play and having no limits are always the ones who tap out and fold the easiest.

Arthur is insatiable. He’s curious and earnest and game to try just about anything Eames can dream up.

He’s also one of the most disciplined people Eames has ever met. The longest Eames has seen anyone last in an _agura_ tie is twenty minutes. Arthur’s been sitting at his feet for an hour.

It helps that Arthur trains like an Olympian. He’s eerily flexible, and it had been easy to get him into the correct position. Cross-legged on the floor with his hands behind his back, Arthur’s bent forward at an awkward angle. The rope going from his neck to his ankles is just long enough to give him room to sit up slightly, but too short to let him truly straighten. 

It’s called a “torture tie” for a reason. It seems easy enough at first, but each passing minute holding it adds to the slow accumulation of discomfort. It compresses the abdomen, making each breath a diminishing return. Leaning fully forward relieves the strain on Arthur’s hip flexors, but it crushes his diaphragm until he has no choice but to straighten back up and start the process all over again. It’s a mental strain as much as a physical one, a test of how much Arthur will endure for him.

Stretched around the gag in his mouth, there’s tension written on Arthur’s face. Eames can just see the slant of Arthur’s eyebrows over his blindfold, the furrow where they disappear behind the bandana Eames had tied over his eyes. Eames is feeling old-school today. It’s good at soaking up the sweat that beads down from Arthur’s temples, too.

Arthur shifts, leaning to one side to try and get some relief. His feet must be numb by now, and Eames can _just_ catch the curled flex of his abs. Still, the ping-pong ball Eames had given him to drop as his signal remains clenched in Arthur’s palm. 

Arthur has a propensity for sensory deprivation. The sex has been glorious, truly, but it’s been even more fun to plumb the depths of Arthur’s tastes. It’s what Eames likes best, the lazy days and long nights of deciphering someone’s desires, cataloguing and curry-combing the little tells and triumphs each time they play. Arthur likes dull pain—a hand, a paddle, a tawse. Eames needs to get his hands on a proper hardwood hairbrush and see what that does to him. Arthur can take the whip but he doesn’t much like it, and canes leave him stoic and mulish at best. 

Some skills are learned, like the perfect posture Arthur holds when Eames has him sit at his feet and wait, but Arthur’s need for restraint is entirely innate. Arthur was born for bondage. He doesn’t endure it so much as merge with it, the strings of tension that haunt his body cut the second Eames winds a length of rope or a leather cuff around his wrists. So many people think bondage is about strength and flexibility; Arthur has both those things in spades, but it’s the ability to yield that even Eames can’t teach. 

Arthur likes to disappear. It’s no surprise, really. Eames can practically see the march of order and control that scrolls along in Arthur’s brain, the _logos_ to Eames’s _pathos_. Denied his senses, Arthur settles into a radiant calm that warms Eames all over. 

Eames kneels and wraps his arm around Arthur’s bent neck, settling the crook of his elbow against Arthur’s Adam’s apple. Arthur moans around his gag, a guileless sound that Arthur probably doesn’t even know he’s making. Eames kisses at the salt-sweat of Arthur’s hairline, clean and soft from Arthur’s morning shower. Arthur smells like Eames’s shampoo.

Bent over as he is, Arthur can’t control the steady stream of drool that leaks out around the ball gag. There’s a puddle on Eames’s floor, clear and glistening in the afternoon light. Eames watches as a fresh drop oozes out around the black rubber ball between Arthur’s teeth, skating down the swell of Arthur’s lower lip before threading down to the ground. Eames swipes over Arthur’s lip with his thumb and spreads it around until Arthur’s mouth is glistening.

“You’re making a mess, darling.” Eames angles down and kisses him, tracing over the body-warm rubber of his gag. Arthur comes alive against him, wriggling against his ropes to get closer to Eames. He’s shaking. 

“You’ve done so well, Arthur,” Eames says, snaking his free hand down Arthur’s chest. He’s warm and dappled with sweat, muscles bunching under Eames’s hand as he finds Arthur’s nipples. That gets a noise out of him, garbled through his gag as Eames plucks at him. Arthur can’t arch into it the way he wants, but he still manages an impressive range of movement as Eames works both of his nipples into hard little peaks.

Next time, Eames’ll thread a rod through Arthur’s elbows to limit his movement more.

“Think you deserve a treat.” Eames presses a kiss to Arthur’s cheek, brushing against his blindfold. 

He settles down behind Arthur, spreading his legs to bracket Arthur’s slim hips before hauling Arthur’s back to his chest. Two quick tugs on his rope have Arthur’s neck free, letting Arthur stretch his legs out as he climbs into Eames’s lap. Arthur’s hardly graceful—his ankles are still bound together, and his arms are still behind his back, but he manages to huff and wriggle himself against Eames quite nicely. 

“There’s a good pet,” Eames murmurs, wrapping one arm around Arthur’s waist as Arthur grinds against him. Eames’s boxer-briefs stand no chance against Arthur’s determination, and Arthur makes a self-satisfied _hnngh_ as he finds Eames hard against him. Eames doesn’t stop him, holding Arthur close as he noses against Arthur’s neck and drags his free hand over Arthur’s wet lips. 

Arthur’s been hard since Eames had slipped the gag into his mouth, and he’s dripping by the time Eames slides his spit-wet hand over him. He strokes Arthur slowly, getting him wet until they can both hear it. Arthur can’t stay still in his grip, not that Eames is complaining with the steady grind of Arthur’s arse against his cock.

“You can come, Arthur,” Eames says, speeding up as he kisses against the sweaty curve of Arthur’s neck. His heart beats against Eames’s lips. Arthur likes having his orgasm controlled, coming when Eames tells him or holding it back when Eames edges him to tears. He can hold himself off with his lip bit between his teeth while Eames deep-throats him, and he can scream bloody murder when Eames milks him dry so many times they lose count. Whatever the lead-up, Arthur’s always gorgeous when he comes.

He spills over Eames’s hand, painting his own stomach as he arches into Eames’s grip. Arthur makes the prettiest noises when he has something in his mouth. His bound feet scrabble against the floor, heels skidding over the hardwood. He tosses his head, turning blindly to drag his gagged mouth across Eames’s skin and it’s all Eames can stand.

Eames pushes Arthur down, letting him land with his back on the floor. Arthur arches up, keeping pressure off his bound hands as Eames comes to straddle his chest. Arthur’s gorgeous, lean and muscular with his back arching off the floor, flushed cherry-red from his chest to his ears. Eames pushes the elastic of his underwear down to cup under his balls, heavy even though they’d fucked this morning. 

Sometimes Arthur likes it rough. Eames has at least a solid stone on him but Arthur’s a fair match in a fight. Eames has to work to pin him down, and there’s no doubt that Arthur’s _letting_ him do it in the end. He likes feeling Eames’s weight, likes being held down until he has no choice but to let himself go. Eames squeezes his knees into Arthur’s ribcage. 

“So good for me,” Eames sighs, stroking himself and smiling as Arthur arches up further. Arthur must be exhausted, but he tries his best to follow the noise of Eames’s cock until Eames pushes him back down. “Stay.”

Arthur can’t pout around a gag, but he pushes out a bubble of spit out that bursts the last of Eames’s control. He comes in stripes over Arthur’s wet mouth and his flushed cheeks, both of them shaking as Eames hunches over him. A glob of spunk oozes down Arthur’s gag, meeting the secret pink of Arthur’s tongue as he darts it around the side to catch what he can. That had been another pleasant surprise. Arthur’s delightfully nasty, quick to swallow and spit and lather, rinse, repeat, happy to beg for a load to the face just to kiss it back into Eames’s obliging mouth. Arthur’s beautiful when he’s glistening.

He should drag Arthur to the bed, or at least a soft surface, but they all seem too far away. He needs Arthur against him. He rolls Arthur to his side to free his hands, doing the same to his gag as he collapses on the floor and pulls Arthur against his chest. Arthur nuzzles against him, making a mess as he spits out his gag. Eames grabs it and tosses it aside. It bounces to the floor, one more mess Eames will clean up later.

“M’gonna drop this,” Arthur mumbles, adding another clatter as his signal-ball rolls across the floor. “But’m fine.”

Arthur crawls half-way on top of him, as much as he can with his ankles still tied together. Eames will get to those in a minute. Arthur seems unbothered, managing to spread himself across Eames’s chest like a seal on a warm rock. He keeps his eyes shut as Eames slides the bandanna off his face.

“I can’t believe you held that for so long,” Eames says, dabbing haphazardly at the mess on Arthur’s face. It’s another reason he has a stash of bandannas on hand. They’re great for cleanup.

“I did? What time is it?” Arthur says, blinking back to stare up at Eames. 

“Arthur, you were tied up for over an hour.”

“Really?” Arthur says, raising himself up to peer around until he squints at Eames’s clock. “Huh.” He shrugs and settles back against Eames, squirming until he finds a relatively dry spot to settle his face. “You should make it harder for me next time.”

Eames smiles and pulls Arthur closer, gazing over the muss of his hair to the wooden rods Eames has stacked next to his canes.

“Oh, don’t worry, darling. I will.”

~

Arthur is an endless ocean of possibility. Eames finds a hundred ways to tie up his cock, ways to bruise the pristine skin of his thighs, ways to make Arthur moan and sing and cry for him. Eames misses deadlines and cancels plans just to learn the limits of Arthur’s pain threshold, the final pulse of his flexibility, the single tear that slides down his cheek as he holds his arms aloft for hours on nothing but Eames’s orders.

He learns the soft sigh Arthur makes when Eames settles him into a hot bath, the wide-eyed look he makes when Eames kisses tenderly across the arch of his foot, the soft press of his lips when Eames feeds him by hand. 

They can go days without seeing anyone else. Holed up in Eames’s flat or tucked safely into Arthur’s bed, Eames’s days melt into sex and play and the quiet moments in between. Arthur is so easy to be around. Someone less flexible than Eames might mind his compulsive tidying-up or his insistence (despite Eames’s perfectly reasonable argument that sex counts as cardio) on taking Eames running irritating, but Eames doesn’t mind it, just like Arthur doesn’t seem to tire of Eames’s mother-henning. Arthur needs to be fed or he doesn’t eat enough when he’s distracted, and he needs forcible reminders to relax, both of which Eames is very good at doing. 

Eames has never had a sub like Arthur; the sex is beyond even Eames’s considerable experiences of ecstasy incarnate. But it’s the lulls between that catch in Eames’s throat. Arthur snuggled against him in bed as they both read one of his graphic novels. Arthur forcing him to watch Batman cartoons and smiling triumphantly when Eames admits that _fine, yes_ , he’d like to watch another one, they’re really rather good (honestly, they’re _fabulous_ , he can’t believe this was intended to be children’s television). Arthur sharing stories of cosplay misadventures, and Arthur listening with rapt attention as Eames tells him about Oscar and the old leather clubs he’d snuck into back home.

The weeks pile onto one another, and still Eames isn’t bored, isn’t anything but enchanted by Arthur’s presence in his life. Arthur keeps him guessing, keeps finding new things he wants to try, showing Eames clips from porn that Arthur’s watched like he’s researching a new costume. 

Arthur, for all his staid waistcoats and the Xeroxed perfection of his hair, is mercurial. His moods shift like a tide Eames doesn’t have a map for. Some nights, he’s the perfect picture of obedience, kneeling between Eames’s spread legs, his hands behind his back, his head bowed, “Yes, Mr. Eames,” so light on his lips as he holds whatever pose Eames puts him in. Other nights, Arthur’s a wild thing, thrashing and snarling, getting sharp elbows and sharper teeth into any part of Eames he can get to. It’s intoxicating, never knowing which Arthur is going to show up at his door, if he’ll get the good boy, or the wild thing; the carrot or the stick.

Despite both their best efforts, life intrudes. Arthur’s working tonight, which is the only reason Eames hasn’t re-re-re-scheduled his lesson with Annie. She’s a good distraction from missing Arthur, a feeling that creeps in a mere eight hours after Arthur leaves his bed and trudges off to some infernal meeting. 

“I brought pork buns,” she sing-songs, handing him a paper bag when he lets her in. It’s still warm.

“You’re an angel,” Eames sighs, fishing one out and devouring half of it before she’s gotten her coat off. He starts her on some decorative work, a clover pattern around her own feet. It’s a good building-block for a variety of decorative ties. Annie’s never dull to be around, sharp as a tack and twice as shiny, same as all the women Eames is fond of. Eames finishes off another pork bun as they catch up on each other’s lives.

“I did a foot bind like this on Arthur last week. Once you’re confident with the pattern I’ll show you how to link them together, makes a spectacular double wrap around the ankles. Here, let me show you a picture, Arthur looks lovely with his—”

“Eighteen,” she says. “That’s eighteen times you’ve said Arthur’s name in the past half hour.”

“Is that all?” Eames responds calmly as he inspects the lines Annie’s woven between her toes. Her pedicure is a deep crimson. Eames is about to ask her if she thinks it would be a good color on Arthur’s toes before he stops himself. Eames _is_ terribly fond of him. 

“I’m just teasing you, it’s adorable.” Annie pulls her ropes free and starts again, accustomed by now to Eames’s insistence on repetition. It’s all in the muscle memory. 

“Ari told me, you know. That you’d only met her that night at the party.” Annie’s a fast learner. She builds up a larger pattern that spans the entirety of her foot and offers it for Eames’s approval. 

“I needed an excuse to get to Arthur. You were just collateral damage,” Eames teases. She rolls her eyes. “I jest, I jest, you know I can’t resist playing Cupid.”

“Well, I’m glad you did. Ariadne’s the best thing that’s happened to me since I moved here.” She smiles as she pulls her ropes free. Her eyes are soft and distant with thoughts she doesn’t need to share with Eames.

“I know what you mean,” Eames says. He stretches and folds his legs under himself to sit beside her on the floor. “Now, let’s get these ankles together and make something really pretty.”

Annie picks the double-bind up quickly. Eames watches as she slowly builds it, settling the rope between each of her toes and blooming a knotted rosette across her ankles. “Very good,” Eames says. “You’re a quick study.”

Annie finishes the tie with a double lark and wiggles her feet. “When can we do a suspension? Ariadne’s already volunteered.”

Frankly, Eames is impressed she’s waited this long to ask. It’s usually the first thing anyone wants to learn. It’s also one of the last things anyone should try. Eames hums. “The first person you’ll be suspending is yourself.”

Annie raises her eyebrows. 

“Can’t do it properly if you don’t know what your sub’s going through,” Eames says, folding his arms over his chest. It’s not how everyone teaches, but Eames is unyielding on that point. He’d done his time hanging in the ropes, felt the ache of his own weight against his ribcage, the burn of a turned rope around his thigh. Some things are too visceral to be left to the imagination, and too dangerous to be taken on faith. Suspension does things to a person’s mind. Eames has seen the most stoic masochists and heavy bondage lovers tap out after a few minutes aloft. 

“Is that how you learned?” Annie asks.

“Partially, yes. My mentor was old-school, wouldn’t let me do anything until he’d done it to me himself.” Eames smiles ruefully. Oscar could be a right bastard, but he’d shared everything with Eames, given him a whole world and trusted him to carry on as his own person when he couldn’t teach Eames anything more. “I’m not going to suspend you myself, unless you’d like me to, but I will insist on you mastering the basics on yourself first.”

“Makes sense,” Annie says, nodding. 

“If you can suspend yourself, you can suspend anyone. Gives you a good grip on the tension you’re working with. And as lovely as Ariadne is, she’s inexperienced. I want you completely confident before you bring that girl off the floor,” Eames says. “But we can have her over while you do it. Arthur, too.”

“Like a double date?” Annie says brightly, carefully coiling the rope in her hands as she frees herself.

Eames tilts his head. “I suppose we’re overdue for one of those, aren’t we?”

“I’ve been keeping her busy, but she does keep making dick-widow jokes about Arthur.”

“No one’s ever called my prick a widow-maker before, I rather like that.” Eames grins and pushes himself off the floor. There’s a mess of rope on his cutting counter, where he’d left it after it had dried over his tub.

“Now be a good girl and do your chores.” Eames dumps the pile of rope at her feet. 

“Ick, is there boy-juice on these?” Annie wrinkles her nose as Eames hands her a tin of rope wax. She still takes it and twists the top off.

Eames narrows his eyes. “They’re washed, love, I’m not a beast. But they need to be oiled and coiled.”

Annie sets to work with no complaint. Eames had ended more than one relationship with an apprentice who thought they were too good to do menial labor. A workman’s only as good as their tools, and anyone who’s sloppy with the care and cleaning of their rope will make a sloppy rigger in turn. While he doesn’t expect Annie to wash the impressive pile of hemp he and Arthur have sullied in the past week, he expects her to understand the principle of caring for it.

“Although I’ll have you know I was given no such consideration when I was learning.” Eames had cleaned a lot worse than some spunked-up rope for Oscar. He shakes his head and leaves Annie to it. Annie’s company is infinitely pleasant, and he truly adores teaching other people about the things he loves, but it’s even nicer to have someone to handle the more tedious aspects of caring for his gear. There’s no point in having an apprentice if he doesn’t put her to work. Eames nabs the last pork bun for himself and spreads out on the couch. Arthur had left him with the last two trade copies of _Saga_ , and Eames wants to finish them before he sees Arthur tomorrow evening. He’s almost as excited to discuss the story with Arthur as he is to get him back in his bed.

When Annie finishes, there are twelve neat coils of rope, gleaming from their fresh wax and doubled over on themselves precisely the way Eames likes. Annie stacks them neatly on his work counter before she kisses him goodbye on the cheek and gives him a few tentative dates to try her first suspension. He’ll have to check with Arthur.

In the quiet after Annie’s departure, Eames snaps a picture of the neat pile of rope and sends it to Arthur. _All ready for tomorrow._

 _No you’re not_ , Arthur replies, followed by a generous sprinkling of water droplet emojis. 

Eames grins and finds his place in his book. 

~

“I want you to suspend me,” Arthur says on a sunny, late Thursday morning. 

They’re still in bed, despite the hour. Arthur wakes up far too early, but he makes up for it with his sheer enthusiasm for Eames’s reluctant morning wood, and he’s easily lured back to the warmth of the covers once he’s had his coffee and his cock sucked. 

“I was wondering when you were going to ask.”

“I was waiting for you to offer,” Arthur counters.

Eames has certainly thought about it. He knows the exact tie he wants to do on Arthur, and the dozens he wants to do after that one. They’ve already done a few partial suspensions, with one of Arthur’s legs off the floor. Arthur had done beautifully in them, as he has in every position Eames has dreamt up for him. Eames is still waiting for Arthur to show any sign of discontent while they play.

“We’ll start simple,” Eames says, as much a reminder to himself as Arthur. It’s so easy to get carried away with Arthur. He’s infectious, with his grit-jawed determination to see things through, the gentle goad in his eyes that pushes Eames farther and farther until they’re both up against the wall and barely breathing. 

Eames acquires bondage furniture the way other people take in stray animals. The pieces come to him from all walks of life—the spanking bench abandoned in Astrid’s messy divorce, the pillory left over from an ill-conceived production of Macbeth, the manacles that Nadia decided didn’t fit the decor in her new studio. Eames’s favorite suspension rig is a sturdy piece of cast-iron that had taken five people to carry up his stairs. It had come from unknown provenance, a friend of a friend of Tim’s who had offered it for free provided Eames had taken it that day with no questions asked. It’s a simple design, essentially a glorified coat rack that stands nine feet tall and wide. What it lacks in beauty it more than makes up for in function. 

Arthur stares up at the cross-beam, stark naked and rocking on his toes. “Will you hang me upside down?”

“Simple,” Eames reminds him, sliding in behind him and starting a chest-harness. It’s the building-block of any suspension, something Eames has done so many times he barely has to look as he whips the rope around Arthur’s chest. Arthur’s gotten familiar with it, too, raising his arms when Eames needs him to without any prodding. 

“Inversions are easier to rig, but they’re more dangerous,” Eames explains, wrapping his slack between Arthur’s shoulder blades. 

“I trust you,” Arthur says. He turns to look over his shoulder, smiling when he finds Eames’s lips there to meet him. His fingers tickle against the sides of Eames’s boxers.

“Good.” Eames kisses him before reaching up to thread the vertical rope through his top-rig, a large, welded stainless-steel ring that could support the weight of five Arthurs. “Then you won’t mind waiting.” He secures his anchor rope, letting Arthur feel just a touch of pressure. It’s part security, part psychology, setting the chest portion first. In the worst-case scenario, Arthur faints while Eames is doing the rest of his ropes, but at least he won’t hit his head, and in the best-case, it’s a subtle reminder that Eames is in control of his movement. Arthur sighs at the press of the ropes, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, gorgeous.

Eames’s flat gets good sun. Shafts of light stripe across his floor and catch motes of dust dancing in the air. They bring out the burnt amber of Arthur’s hair, the soft glow of his skin. Arthur naked in the sunlight is something to be savored. Eames builds his suspension slowly, each piece snug and secure as he works from the chest harness to the hip sling to the thick bands of rope that lash Arthur’s thighs together. He tests each part, giving it a good grip and a shove to make sure it’s strong. Arthur’s lax in Eames’s hands, settling into himself nicely. His arms are free at his sides; safer to leave them that way for his first time. He makes generous use of his freedom, brushing his fingers against Eames’s skin wherever he can. Eames finishes him off with a double-wrap around the ankles and kisses his way up Arthur’s back.

“I can’t promise this will be entirely comfortable, but if you feel anything tingling or losing sensation, tell me immediately,” Eames says. It’s not a quick thing to bring Arthur down once he’s up, and Eames has seen too many lingering nerve injuries to leave anything to chance.

Arthur nods.

Eames steps in front of him, holding Arthur’s face in his hands as he looks Arthur in the eyes. “Don’t wait to tell me, Arthur. If you even think you need to take a break or stop, I need to know.”

Eames is as safe as humanly possible, but he knows that even the safest rig is a dangerous beast. He can’t bear the thought of Arthur digging his heels in and keeping quiet until he’s got a pinched nerve. He can’t bear the thought of Arthur hating this.

Arthur smiles indulgently. “I will, Eames, I promise.”

Eames threads all his vertical lines up through his top rig, making sure each line lays straight across the curve of the ring. He checks each knot on Arthur’s body again, frowning at the odd sensation in his stomach. Eames doesn’t get nervous. He’s done this a thousand times. This isn’t even a difficult suspension. 

“I won’t be upset if you need to come down.” Eames wipes his hand on his boxers. Christ, he’s _s_ _weating_. 

“Mr. Eames,” Arthur says, in that chiding voice of his that would put a schoolteacher to shame, “get me off the floor.” He pulls Eames in with his hands around Eames’s biceps. “Please.”

Arthur kisses him, hard, straining against the ropes. There’s a fierce streak in Arthur, always simmering below the surface. Eames likes the good boy who sits at his feet and nuzzles for his cock like it’s a treat, but the strength that Arthur keeps wrapped inside himself makes Eames dizzy.

Eames smiles and hauls Arthur into the air. 

He brings Arthur’s hips up until they’re level with his chest. Arthur hangs parallel to the floor, with his head and his arms hanging down freely. His breath comes out in a long sigh, part exertion and part elation, if Eames had to guess. He wraps his lead for Arthur’s hips and sets up Arthur’s thighs next, distributing his weight more evenly. The familiar wend of the rope through his hands soothes him, settles the flutter in his stomach. Eames finishes off the thigh-lead and pauses, checking for imperfections in his rig and finding none. It’s all in the muscle memory. He pets along Arthur’s back, pleased to find him relaxed and still under his hands.

“How are you feeling, Arthur?"

“M’good,” Arthur says, turning his head for a moment just to let it sink back down. Arthur’s headspace is a monosyllabic lull, all the more reason for Eames to pay close attention to the language of his body. Arthur’s hands are slack, his toes uncurled, his jaw open. Eames forgets his own body apart from the haul of rope through his hands and the strength of his muscles, lost in easy empathy for Arthur’s every sound and movement. Eames adds Arthur’s ankles to the rig, bringing them up until Arthur’s knees are bent and his toes are pointing toward the top of the structure. 

Eames has watched bondage spectacles of urban legend, borne witness to unspeakable acts of depravity and seen the vast caverns of emotional release that can subsume everyone involved. Eames has orchestrated half of these things himself. He’s tied porn stars and models and kink-scene legends, worked in front of huge crowds and hushed audiences as he’s built intricate suspensions that took weeks of planning. 

Arthur’s hair falls over his forehead, sun-dappled and softened from its usual hold. Soft, that’s what Arthur is for Eames, worked in his palms like putty, tender and precious. Here, in the open light of Eames’s flat, Arthur naked and hanging in a textbook tie is more devastating than anything Eames has ever managed to build before.

He pets down Arthur’s sides, stroking over lean muscle and the perfect cut of his waist. Arthur shudders when Eames drags his nails over the expanse of Arthur’s back, his skin pebbling up in the pink wake of Eames’s soft scratches. He traces over Arthur’s thighs, the bend in his knees, the _en pointe_ of his toes, seeking out every soft sigh and warm hiss Arthur can make. He’s so responsive, squirming at the lightest touch and moaning open-mouthed when Eames grabs him by the hair.

It’s a gentle pressure, far lighter than the worst he’s done to Arthur’s scalp, but Arthur blinks up at him in shock. Eames stoops to face him, taking in the amber blur of Arthur’s eyes, the ruby flush on his cheeks, the jewel-part of his mouth. Arthur kisses him back but it’s sloppy, like he can’t be bothered to control his tongue. His lips drag a hazy smile against Eames’s mouth. Arthur’s deep in his headspace, lost in a fog with only Eames for an anchor. He rests his head on Eames’s shoulder, kissing blindly over the warm flush of Eames’s neck. Eames holds him, content to float with Arthur, both of them dancing in mid-air even if Eames’s feet stay firmly on the ground.

It’s the drool that brings him back. A wet spot seeps on to Eames’s skin, leaking out of the open corner of Arthur’s mouth. Eames smiles, pulling back and swiping over Arthur’s mouth. “Oh, love.”

Arthur in a rumpled shirt with sleep around his eyes is the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. Arthur like this—eased into Eames’s ropes, his mouth in a slack smile, his toes curling with pleasure as Eames kisses the tops of his feet—is more than Eames can bear. 

“I’m going to take you down now, Arthur,” Eames says softly, slotting himself against Arthur’s side. Arthur nods, barely, but it’s enough for Eames to know that he’s been heard. He frees Arthur’s ankles and his thighs from the top rig, frowning at the muffled whine Arthur makes as he takes more of his weight in his hips. It doesn’t last long. Eames undoes Arthur’s hip lead with one hand and slowly tilts Arthur down to stand on his own feet again. Arthur sags against the ropes, secure in the chest harness. Eames presses against him, kissing Arthur as he blindly releases the hip harness. “Perfect, darling, stay with me.”

Confident that the chest rope can bear all of Arthur’s weight if need be, Eames crouches down to unwrap Arthur’s ankles and thighs, adding to the pile of rope beside them. He finds Arthur struggling to open his eyes when he stands back up, but that’s of no matter. He guides Arthur’s arms over his shoulders, making sure they’re wrapped around Eames’s neck before he frees the final link to the suspension. He tugs the chest-lead free and tosses it aside, leaving Arthur supported by nothing but his arms around Eames and his own trembling feet. 

“Let me,” Eames says, leaning into the natural pull of Arthur’s body as he clings to Eames. Arthur’s starting to shake. His arms are ironclad around Eames’s neck, and it takes the barest urging to get Arthur’s legs wrapped around his waist. It’s secondary to keeping Arthur secure and carrying him somewhere warm, but Eames doesn’t miss the hard press of Arthur’s cock against his stomach. 

He carries Arthur to the bedroom, an act that sounds far more graceful in theory than in reality. Arthur won’t stop moving in his arms, and he’s deceptively heavy. Eames almost trips before hurling them both into bed, but finally he lands Arthur safely against the mattress. Arthur won’t let him get more than an inch of space between them, arms and legs wrapping around him as he mouths at any available part of Eames’s skin. Eames is happy to return the favor, peppering kisses along Arthur’s collarbones and tracing his fingers over the dashed rope indentations left behind on his skin. Arthur trembles at each one, but he’s shaking with adrenaline, not fear, and the blissed-out smile on his face calms any worry brewing inside Eames. 

A few pointed tugs from Arthur’s spider-limbs pull Eames fully on top of him, his legs spread wide to make way for Eames’s hips. Arthur pulls him down like a blanket, stilling as Eames levels his full weight against him. Arthur needs to be grounded now, planted back in the earth. Eames rocks against him, warm skin on skin, Arthur’s breath hot on his neck. Arthur’s sharp heels dig into his back until Eames realizes he’s trying to nudge Eames’s boxers down, a fair play. Eames kicks his hips up and shimmies them off, smiling softly at the impatient whine Arthur makes in the bare second they’re not pressed together. Arthur keeps such a rein on himself that Eames has come to hoard these needy seconds, when Arthur will pout and twitch to get what he wants.

“I’m here, love,” Eames murmurs, nosing against Arthur’s ear as he slots back against him. His cock catches against Arthur’s and Arthur jolts beneath him, legs gripping Eames so hard they may both have bruises after this. Eames shifts his hips and does it again. “You want to come for me?” 

Arthur nods furiously against him, jaw clenching as he angles himself to graze against Eames’s cock. Eames curls himself over Arthur, wrapping his arms under Arthur’s shoulders and burying his face against Arthur’s sweaty neck. 

It’s more comfort than sex, letting Arthur bring himself down from his high, giving it all somewhere to go. Eames grinds against him, letting Arthur set the pace. Sweat and precome slide against their skin, smearing warm between them until they’re honey-stuck together, moving in tight, concentrated thrusts. Arthur pants against him, turning his head to demand a kiss. They’re so close Eames can feel his heartbeat, feel every breath and sigh and contented sound Arthur makes as he kisses him. This is just as precious as the fell-swoop of Arthur in bondage, this moment of connection, the grease-lensed glow of their bodies together, sharing breath and space and one single, beating pulse between them. Eames knows Arthur is going to come before he even gulps for air, just like he knows he’s going to follow right after him when Arthur moans his name. 

Eames stays at it, rutting them together, oversensitive and slick until Arthur’s eyes swim back into focus. He could trap Arthur like this forever, soft and open, his hair falling into waves and his dimples cutting in as he blinks up at Eames. He forces some water into Arthur and cleans up what he can with his poor boxers before they snuggle back under the covers. Arthur tucks up under his arm and they doze off like that, until the sun has slanted down into burnt smudges and everything is golden. 

Eames rubs a hand over his eyes and peers down at Arthur, who’s still passed out against him. He’s tucked too closely against Eames for him to move without waking Arthur. Even if Eames could do with a snack and a piss, he’ll wait for Arthur.

“You’re hungry-breathing,” Arthur mumbles, his voice muzzy against Eames’s chest.

“What’s that now?”

“You’re doing that thing. You act like you’re still asleep so you won’t wake me up, but your stomach starts growling and you just breathe deeper to cover it up.” Arthur shifts against him, slinging his leg across Eames’s hips. “It’s cute.”

“I’m glad my gastrointestinal distress delights you, pet.” He kisses the top of Arthur’s head. “Do you feel like getting up?”

“Almost,” Arthur says, cuddling in closer. People who don’t know Arthur probably think he’s cold and distant. Eames has learned that the stronger the resting bitch face, the stronger the post-coital snuggle game tends to be. Arthur is no exception.

“First suspension done, then,” Eames says. “Think you’d want to do it again?” Eames’s attempt at humor must fall flat, because Arthur fully rises onto one elbow to stare at him.

“Are you fucking kidding? I want to do that a million more times.” Arthur’s eyes are wide— offended, even.

“I think I was a little scared you weren’t going to like it.” Eames runs his thumb along the faint imprint criss-crossing Arthur’s chest. He’s only human, and it thrills him to see the tangible evidence of their play on Arthur’s body, the bruises and abrasions that say _This is mine_. Arthur clasps his hand over Eames’s, pressing his thumb in harder.

“I loved it. I love, God, Eames, I love all of this. You make me feel… it’s like being in a dream with someone. It’s not like real life, or at least not any kind of real life I’ve ever known,” Arthur says. He pulls Eames’s hand up to kiss it.

“I like sharing dreams with you, Arthur.” He likes sharing everything with Arthur. Eames frowns as he pulls Arthur back to his chest, looking over his head at the thin layer of dust on his night table.

“Tomorrow’s Friday,” Eames says, his voice quiet against Arthur’s ear.

“Mm-hmm,” Arthur agrees, “they’ve got a Saturday on the books after that, and I get you for both of them. And Sunday.”

“It’s just, that’s when Robert usually comes.”

“Oh,” Arthur says, going still at Eames’s side.

“I haven’t had him by since we started seeing each other. I don’t want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable, Arthur.” Eames has been avoiding this conversation because it makes _him_ uncomfortable. Arthur is quiet as he rolls onto his back. 

“It _has_ been looking a little dusty around here,” Arthur acknowledges, folding an arm behind his head. 

“I’ve been trying my best,” Eames says defensively. Arthur’s quiet for another long minute, and Eames wonders if this was a bad idea, breaking their reverie with his stupid questions.

“He should come,” Arthur nods decisively. “I don’t want you spending your time scrubbing the bathroom when you should be working on other things, and I’m certainly not cleaning your house for you.”

“Not even if I order you to?” Eames prods, teasing. 

Arthur snorts. “I’m not the one speaking from experience here, but I think any attempts to make cleaning sexy won’t end with anything getting significantly cleaner.”

Eames, who has already conjured four predicament bondage scenarios involving Arthur and a feather duster, nods in agreement. “All right, then. I’ll tell him to come round tomorrow afternoon.”

“He should wash the sheets,” Arthur gripes as he shoves himself upright. “I think they’re about to walk out on their own.”

“I changed them two days ago,” Eames protests. He’s not an animal.

“Yeah, but you’ve fucked me, what, four times since then? Five?” Arthur arches an eyebrow and shrugs one shoulder up seductively, coy.

“At least,” Eames says. “And you’re not getting anything else until we eat, you bloody ascetic. I’m making you some proper English comfort food. Ever had a toad in the hole?”

“A what-in-the-who, now?”

“You’re in for a treat, love,” Eames says. “Stay here. I’ll serve you breakfast in bed.”

“It’s 5:00 PM.” Still, Arthur settles back against the headboard, a pleased smile on his face.

“All the more reason to eat something hearty. The day is young,” Eames says, stretching his back as he slides out of bed. He presses a kiss to Arthur’s forehead. “And I have such plans for you, Arthur.”

“I like plans,” Arthur replies, settling back against the pillows like it’s his natural habitat. “But—Eames—we don’t have to play all the time.” Arthur reaches for him, catching Eames’s hand in his. “I like just hanging out with you, too. You know that, right?”

Arthur’s the one recovering from being suspended, but Eames goes upside down as Arthur squeezes his hand and smiles. Eames swallows, his throat suddenly thick. Arthur can’t possibly know how few men have ever said that to him.

“Well, I’m sure we can work in a movie around tying you to the spanking bench.” Eames recovers quickly, gallantly kissing the back of Arthur’s hand. Warmth blooms across his chest, a pleasant heat that spreads up to his cheeks. He smiles when he’s at the door, where Arthur can’t see.

“Seven Samurai!” Arthur yells at his back. _Of course_ Arthur has good taste in movies.

Eames bustles off to cook for Arthur, his heart just a shade larger.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames is someone who loves surprises almost as much as he loves trying to guess what they are before they happen. Arthur had kept this secret for weeks, resisting Eames’s most determined and skilled weaseling. The _things_ that man can do with his mouth.

“And then he mopped the floor.”

“That’s it?” Ariadne leans on one elbow, her chin cupped in her hand. Their cafe table lists under her weight, but she pays it no mind.

“That’s it,” Arthur says, shrugging and swirling his straw around in his iced latte. Ariadne peers at him as she takes a sip of her tea. 

“So you could say you were…” She trails off, giving him a bland, expectant look as she tugs the sleeves of her oversized cable-knit sweater over her knuckles. Arthur narrows his eyes.

“Wrong? _Yes_ , Ari, I was _wrong_ about Robert.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that? You were...?” She leans in, one hand cupped behind her ear.

“Fuck you,” Arthur retorts, lovingly, before taking a long sip of his drink.

“It’s just not that often I get to hear it, I really want to savor this moment.” She sips her tea and lets out a loud, contented sigh.

Arthur rolls his eyes at her and leans back in his chair, sticking out his tongue. Let her have her moment. 

“Okay, okay, I’m done gloating,” she says, primly setting down her cup and smiling at him. “What else is new with you, aside from watching your boyfriend’s platonic man-slave deep-clean the oven?”

“He’s not, that’s,” Arthur sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Never mind. I’m thinking of asking Eames to come to ECC with me. With us,” Arthur clarifies, because no one will ever supplant Ariadne as his con-date, not even Eames.

“You totally should. Annie’s coming, it would be so fun.” She wrinkles her nose. “Maybe book another room, though?”

Arthur laughs. “I am _not_ squeezing all four of us into one room. Eames would never go to another con again.”

“He doesn’t strike me as someone who’d mind having an audience while you two bumped uglies,” she says, adding a rude hand gesture in case Arthur didn’t get the picture clearly enough without it.

“No, but he’s never had to use the bathroom after you whip out that industrial-grade Aquanet.”

Ariadne shrugs, not even bothering to defend the volatile chemicals she lets loose. “So things are good with you two?”

“Yeah. They’re really good.”

Ariadne arches an eyebrow. “I assumed as much, considering I haven’t seen you in two weeks. And you’ve got that jizz-in-your-hair glow to you, or whatever gross stuff boys do.”

“I really like him, Ari. And it’s not just the sex, which is fucking incredible.” Arthur closes his eyes briefly, his skin going to goosebumps as he recalls the crack of Eames’s hand against him last night.

“Ooh, he’s doing that dirty shit you like,” Ariadne coos, shameless in public as always.

“Yeah. Yeah he fucking does, Jesus, but it’s more than just that. He cooks dinner for me and we watch Kurosawa movies, and I just feel really good when I’m with him. It’s like he likes taking care of me as much as he likes, uh... the other stuff.”

Ariadne’s face is soft, not teasing him for once. “That’s great, Arthur. That’s how it’s supposed to be.”

“And you and Annie? Things good?” Arthur splays his fingers into two Vs and scissors them together, keeping a straight face as Ariadne glowers at him. 

“She can’t cook for shit, and I think she likes anime more than Kurosawa, but yeah. Like with a big L. A big, capital, L-word L.” It’s Ariadne’s turn to look a little flushed. “Even the guinea pigs love her.”

Arthur reaches across the table and squeezes her hand. “You deserve it.”

“You, too,” she says. Ariadne’s not much bigger than she was when he first met her in Sophomore English. She’s just as fierce, though. She’d protected him from bullies twice her size at his new school, given him a home and helped him sew his first costume. She’s never stopped looking out for him, and for all her teasing, Arthur knows she’d commit an entire Arkham Asylum’s worth of crimes for him. He’d do the same for her.

“What are you up to this weekend?” she asks, leaning back in her chair and fiddling with the hem of her sweater.

“I’m taking Eames on a date. It’s a surprise.” He shows her the event on his phone. 

“Oh, Arthur, he’ll love it,” she croons, smiling down at the colorful event flyer on Instagram. “You’re really falling for him, huh?”

Arthur’s cheeks burn as he closes his lips around his straw. He _is_ falling, hard. Ariadne’s not the only one nursing a _capital-L-word-L_. Arthur loves a very small handful of people so fiercely he’d die for them, and expanding that circle is both terrifying and the best feeling that’s ever crept its way into his chest. He sips his drink and smiles.

“I wanted to do something non-kink, but still _him_ , you know? I don’t think he’s dated a lot of guys who take him anywhere besides a sex club.” _Nothing too pedestrian_. Arthur smiles.

“It’s perfect,” she says. The waitress arrives with their food, and they spend the rest of the morning catching up on the usual stories from the salon, tales of Arthur’s nightmare clients and dreamy nights with Eames, the latest news from Ariadne’s eccentric parents, and several graphic renditions of how talented Annie is with her hands. 

“Eight times in a row, how do you even,” Arthur shakes his head, boggled. _Women are a mystery_. They settle up the tab and hug each other goodbye. Arthur has to finish some work before he gets Eames later, and Ariadne has two wigs to style. Arthur says a quick prayer for the pulmonary health of her roommates, human and cavy alike.

“Don’t forget we have our double-date next week,” she says, kissing him on the cheek.

“I won’t,” he promises. He’s excited to see Eames teach one-on-one.

Arthur hugs her, squeezing tight around her tiny shoulders before he lets her go. He shoves his hands in his pockets and heads back toward his apartment, wondering what the fuck he’s going to wear tonight.

~

“Your surprise date is in Queens?”

Eames turns to him in the back of their cab as they cross the Kosciuszko Bridge. Arthur smiles and raises his eyebrows. “You’ll see.”

Eames is someone who loves surprises almost as much as he loves trying to guess what they are before they happen. Arthur had kept this secret for weeks, resisting Eames’s most determined and skilled weaseling. The _things_ that man can do with his mouth.

The cab drops them off at the border of Long Island City and what might be Elmhurst, Arthur’s not too sure. It’s not like he visits the VFW halls of the outer boroughs that often.

“Where on earth are you taking me, Arthur?” Eames wonders cheerfully, following Arthur out of the cab and up the block toward the milling crowd. An odd assortment of middle-aged Hispanic men, young hipsters, and sharp-edged punk girls who’d look at home in Eames’s leather masterpieces stands on line. As they follow the crowd up the steps, Eames stares at the banner hanging over the door. Garish red script reads _Lucha Vavoom_ , with head-shots of wrestlers and burlesque stars.

“Oh, _Arthur_ ,” Eames says, his voice rising in delight. Arthur shows their tickets and hopes his plain black oxford isn’t too formal for a Luchador show.

The seats are packed around a wrestling ring, with all the fluorescent lighting and loud noise Arthur had expected. Arthur buys them each a Modelo Negra and a bag of popcorn. They find their allotted folding chairs just in time for the opening act, a burlesque troupe that has the entire crowd hollering by the end of their set, Eames not least among them. 

By the end of the evening, Eames has shouted himself hoarse, sworn his undying allegiance to a wrestler named Taya Valkyrie, and purchased three new luchador masks for himself. He’s rapt for the entire performance, giving Arthur plenty of opportunities to look at him and marvel at how _fun_ Eames is. Eames can fit in anywhere, at ease in his surroundings in a way that Arthur never is. He’s charming and handsome and shockingly sincere for all that he puts on the mask of a feckless flirt half the time. 

Arthur takes his arm as they follow the jostling crowd outside. Eames’s leather jacket is worn and soft against Arthur’s hand, and his enthusiastic recap of the show makes Arthur laugh until his sides hurt.

“That move with the chair, that was fucking brilliant,” Eames gushes, positively _vibrating_ next to Arthur. 

“Are you hungry?” Arthur asks, even if he already knows the answer.

“Always, darling,” Eames tells him. 

There’s a cluster of food trucks at the curb. Arthur gets some Mexican street corn and an arepa, both of which Eames devours as they sit next to each other on the steps. 

“Not what you expected, huh?” Arthur says, handing Eames a napkin.

“Nothing about you is what I expected, Arthur,” Eames says. “Well, aside from how good you look dangling from my ceiling.” Eames narrows his eyes at Arthur. “Scratch that, you look even better than I’d expected.”

“I’m full of surprises,” Arthur replies, inching in closer to Eames. It’s not freezing outside, but it’s not balmy either. 

“Yes, you are.” Eames offers Arthur the last bite of arepa. “This was perfect, Arthur.”

Arthur smiles, thrilled to see Eames so happy. They finish their food and Arthur leans his head onto Eames’s shoulder.

“So, there’s a con, in a few weeks. I thought maybe you’d like to come?”

“One of your comic things?” Eames asks.

“Yeah. It’s in Jersey, so we’d stay overnight. Only if you’re interested, I understand—-”

“Can I dress up as something?”

“If you want,” Arthur says, pleasantly taken aback. 

“Wait,” Eames starts, suddenly serious. “Are you going to wear those little shorts? I don’t know if I can make it out of a hotel room with you dressed like that.”

Arthur laughs. “No, no shorts. I think I’ll do Justice League Unlimited Nightwing. Ariadne likes teasing my hair for that one, she’s really sadistic with a rat comb.”

“I’d love to come, Arthur.” Eames sounds completely sincere. He kisses Arthur, and he tastes like beer and sweet bread. “I love doing things like this with you. No one’s ever, or, well, I’ve never really,” he shakes his head, smiling. “No matter. I’d love to come to your convention, shorts or no.”

“Ok, I’ll get you a ticket,” Arthur promises, kissing him again and smiling. Eames stares at him, his eyes wide and earnest, and something in Arthur’s chest catches, flapping its wings when Eames draws a soft breath.

“Arthur, I--”

“ _Excuse me?_ ” 

Arthur looks up at a woman’s voice. She’s sixty if she’s a day, with a face lined like an old suitcase. Her arm is linked with an older man, who’s looking away from them as he puffs on a cigar. Arthur frowns, steeling himself.

“I just had to tell you, you two are the most adorable couple,” she continues, smiling warmly at them both.

“Thank you, madam,” Eames offers grandly, throwing his arm over Arthur’s shoulder and pressing a fat kiss to his cheek. “I assure you, it’s all him.”

“Let them be, Mimi, they’re on a nice date, they don’t want to hear it from you,” grouses the man at her elbow.

“A nice date. I remember those days,” she says pointedly, jabbing her partner in the side as he leads her away. 

“Have a good evening, gentlemen.” The man takes another puff of his cigar as the woman waves to them.

“Do you hear that? We’re _adorable_ ,” Eames croons, clearly delighted. He pulls Arthur in closer, laughing.

“‘Adorable couple’ was not what I was expecting to come out of her mouth,” Arthur says.

“But we are. Adorable, that is.” Eames nods, brooking no argument. “If I saw someone with a boyfriend as handsome as mine, I’d be giving out unsolicited compliments, too.”

Arthur goes warm all over. _Boyfriend_. Eames has only said it a few times, and each one has filled Arthur’s chest with a swarm of butterflies. He takes a breath and squints at Eames. “Does that mean I’m smoking a cigar in this scenario?”

Eames laughs, loud and clear with his head thrown back. 

“We should get going.” Arthur’s ass is starting to freeze from sitting on the cold concrete steps.

Eames grumbles in agreement and hauls them both to their feet. “How can I ever repay you for such a perfect evening?” He pulls Arthur in for a hug, brushing his nose against Arthur’s like a happy puppy.

Arthur can think of a few things. Biting his lip, he leans in and whispers in Eames’s ear. 

Eames goes rigid against him. “We need a car. Now.”

Arthur holds up his phone, where he’s already summoned a Lyft.

“Good boy,” Eames says, smiling as he tucks Arthur’s arm back into his.

~

All in all, ending the night sitting on Eames’s face seems like more than fair repayment for a Luchador show. 

Arthur’s bed creaks beneath them. He’s been meaning to upgrade his shitty Ikea MALM frame for years, but the mere prospect of getting it out of his apartment is so daunting he keeps putting it off. 

“Fuck, Eames—” Arthur moans, doing nothing to help with the structural integrity of his bed as he grips the headboard for support. It’s not his fault Eames is so good at eating his ass he’s about to pass out. Arthur’s eyes roll back as Eames dips inside him, his hands digging into the flexed curve of Arthur’s ass. 

Arthur grinds against him, flexing his stomach and rolling his hips to meet the drag of Eames’s tongue against him. His cock bobs against the empty air, glistening at the tip, a perfect match for the steady leak of Eames’s cock against his own bare stomach. The sight of Eames, naked and spread out under him in all his gruff glory is enough to make his head pound. Arthur’s not sure what’s louder, the unsteady jabs of his breath or the wet, shameless groans Eames makes between his legs. Arthur’s toes curl where they’re tucked by Eames’s shoulders, as electrified as the rest of him as Eames fucking _sucks_ on him, and how it’s even physically possible for something to feel so good completely escapes Arthur’s understanding.

Arthur knows for a solid fact that Eames can do this all night, but Arthur’s not going to last that long. 

“I want you,” Arthur tries, derailed immediately when Eames digs his fingers into the flesh of Arthur’s ass and darts his tongue in deeper, the bastard. 

“Want you— want you to fuck me,” Arthur finally manages, rutting himself against Eames’s face one last time before he inches down. 

“Fucking need it, Eames, come on,” he begs, knee-walking awkwardly off Eames’s chest and fishing blindly in his bedside drawer for lube and condoms. He lands the lube on the bed with a dull thud and finds a condom lining the bottom of the drawer. They’ve been spending more time at Eames’s place, and Arthur hasn’t restocked in a while.

“Here,” he says, tossing the condom to Eames as he makes quick work of slicking his own fingers with lube. Eames stares up at him, his chin smeared with spit, his lips swollen to truly uncanny proportions, flushed from his chest to his cheeks. 

He straddles himself back across Eames’s waist, facing him as Arthur preps himself as fast and efficiently as possible. Eames doesn’t even have to move, Arthur can just sit on his cock, that sounds perfect. Eames tears the condom open between his teeth and reaches behind Arthur, lip curling up the way it always does. God, Arthur needs him inside, now. Something snaps behind him.

“Shit,” Eames growls, his teeth bared. “Broke. I need another one.”

It’s not Eames’s fault, and Arthur will swear he doesn’t give him a dirty look as he swings himself off Eames yet again to rummage around next to his bed. He paws through hand cream and ear plugs and a dozen other fucking things he can’t put on Eames’s cock. _Fuck_.

“Fuck,” Arthur huffs, guttural with frustration. He staggers off the bed in search of his pants, his wallet. His own face glares back from his driver’s license as Arthur flips through it, he always keeps a condom in his wallet, where the fuck is it?

“Oh fuck, we used it at that bar.” Arthur throws his wallet back on the floor with more force than it deserves. Arthur’s the one who forgot to restock it.

“Do you have one?” Arthur turns to look at Eames. He’s starting to feel a little desperate, and he must look it, if the careful alarm on Eames’s face is any guide. He rises up onto his elbow, staring at the dark pile of his jeans.

“I… fuck, no, we used it. At that other bar.” Eames groans and sinks back down, rubbing his hand over his eyes. “We really need to stop shagging in so many bars.”

Arthur curses and sinks back down onto the bed, his cock still willfully hard. 

“Let me suck you off, darling, come here,” Eames offers, rolling himself over with a groan and urging Arthur back onto the bed. He pushes Arthur to lean against the headboard and crawls between his legs.

“I’ve been thinking,” Arthur says as Eames nuzzles into him. “We should get tested.”

Eames looks up at him.

“Wouldn’t have to worry about this anymore,” Arthur continues, shrugging. His current rage aside, he’s been thinking about it for a while, but always thought Eames would be the one to bring it up.

“All right,” Eames says, smiling as he lays his cheek against Arthur’s thigh. “Shit, can we go tomorrow?”

“I’ll make an appointment.” Arthur groans as Eames starts to kitten-lick across the head of Arthur’s cock. Eames slips two fingers inside him and soon Arthur isn’t thinking about much except Eames’s mouth, sliding wet and swallowing him down. 

“Still, fuck, want you to fuck me,” Arthur says, bucking into Eames’s mouth. Eames hums and does something clever with his fingers, and then Arthur’s coming and it’s perfectly good, but it’s not what he wants. 

“Want me to toss one off on your face? You always like that,” Eames grins, ostentatiously wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before rearing up onto his knees. He wraps his hand around his cock, his gorgeous, thick, hard cock. Arthur pouts.

“I don’t want you to jerk off on my face, Eames, I want you to put some clothes on and go buy us some fucking condoms.”

Eames raises one eyebrow in warning. “Someone’s feeling spoilt.” The thought of Eames spanking him does nothing whatsoever to dampen Arthur’s appetite.

“Please?” Arthur leans forward and bats his eyelashes as coquettishly as possible. 

Eames folds, grumbling as he gets off the bed. “Bloody brat.” 

Arthur winces in sympathy as Eames gets dressed with more than half a hard-on. He loves those tight jeans on Eames but they look like torture as he zips them up. Eames grimaces and pops the top button shut, then finds his shirt and his hoodie. Once he’s as clothed as Arthur is naked, he leans back onto the bed with one knee to kiss Arthur and grab his hand.

“Be good and keep fucking yourself until I get back,” Eames orders, his eyes burning into Arthur’s as he slides two of Arthur’s fingers between his lips and soaks them with spit.

“Yes, Mr. Eames.” Arthur is the picture of pliant obedience as he reaches down to slip his fingers inside himself. Eames makes a mournful face as he grabs Arthur’s keys from their hook and heads out.

Arthur closes his eyes and adds “doctor’s appointment” to the top of his to-do list before he happily follows Eames’s orders.

~

The spectacle of a half-naked woman in the living room is largely lost on Arthur, but Ariadne seems enchanted.

“She’s been practicing all week,” she says to Arthur, her voice hushed over the rim of her wine glass. As neither she nor Arthur are tying anyone up tonight, they’ve already opened the bottle of Primitivo that Annie brought with her.

“How awful for you,” Arthur says, miming sympathy as Ariadne sticks her tongue out. She digs her heel into Arthur’s leg where her feet are piled onto his lap. Like a puppy or an old man, Ariadne can make herself cozy on almost any flat surface. She tucks one foot under Arthur’s legs, rubbing the black velvet of her leggings together as she wedges herself further against the couch cushions. She disappears into her oversized cropped sweater, a fuzzy box of white against the dark waves of her hair. 

“I’m a saint,” she says primly, taking another sip of her wine and smiling over at Annie. 

Watching Eames teach is oddly endearing. He hovers over Annie, completely absorbed as he checks every knot she’s made. She’s almost done with a front-facing chest harness. The rope is lined up perfectly, breaking up the black bands of her sports bra. 

“Excellent, dear, now get that through your top rig,” Eames says, pointing to one of the long ends of rope in Annie’s hands. Arthur isn’t paying much attention to the technique, not when he can watch the attentive look on Eames’s face, how handsome he is when he smiles and compliments Annie’s work. “Now heave up a bit, just to feel it.”

Annie sets her face into a determined expression and tests her rope, her eyes going wide as she generates some force. “I can feel it,” she says, her voice breathless.

Arthur exhales, imagining the aching sigh of rope across his own rib cage. 

“Good, now tie it off to your top rig, just like we practiced,” Eames says. They’d all endured an hour of him watching Annie suspend a duffel bag full of random gear, which Eames had declared to be approximately “Arthur-heavy” and good practice for working on her load-bearing knots. Clearly the practice wasn’t wasted. Annie finishes off her lead line quickly.

“Why do we always tie the chest off first?” Eames asks, watching sharply as Annie wraps her rope and cinches it off. 

“So we have a stable support point in case our sub gets dizzy,” Annie says brightly, clearly used to being top in her class. Ariadne is gazing at her like the moon and stars are going to rise right along with her suspension rig. Arthur can’t judge her too harshly. 

“Very good, petal,” Eames says, handing her another hank of rope. “Hip harness and up you go.”

Annie’s clearly been practicing this part, too. The rope flies through her hands, wrapping around her waist and hips to make a sturdy harness over her tiny lycra shorts. Arthur slides a hand onto his stomach, rubbing his fingertips along where Eames’s ropes had bit into him last night. 

“I’m ready,” Annie says, her face set as Eames runs his fingers clinically over her work.

“Yes, you are,” Eames says, nodding. “You know what to do.”

Ariadne kicks her feet against Arthur in silent excitement. They both watch as Annie feeds her rope through the large welded ring over her head and pulls. Annie makes a delighted squeak as her feet rise off the ground. Eames is beaming, even as his hands drum nervously by his sides as Annie inches herself up. 

“Steady... steady...” Eames says, quiet and reassuring, and Arthur feels a surge of affection for him. He can’t imagine Eames’s concern and attention are the norm for most master/apprentice relationships, although there’s still so much Arthur doesn’t know about that part of Eames’s life. He’s learning, slowly.

Annie gets her hips almost level with her chest before she ties off her rope and lets out a triumphant “Yes!” She shifts, testing her weight against the ropes before relaxing to let her head tilt back.

“Look, baby, no hands,” she says to Ariadne, letting her arms fall down past her sides as she dangles. “Come here.” Ariadne must _adore_ her, because she abandons her cozy spot on the sofa immediately to spring up and go to Annie.

“Oh my God, wait,” Ariadne shrills, stepping up onto her tip-toes and placing a hand on either side of Annie’s face to kiss her while she’s upside-down.

“Spider-Man kiss!” Arthur cheers, adding to the peals of laughter coming from Annie and Ariadne. Eames’s face goes from utter confusion to dawning comprehension. 

“A spider and a maze-runner, aren’t they perfect?” he asks, winking at Arthur before turning to Annie. “Now, my sapphic little spider, what am I going to say?”

“Do it again.” Annie draws it out as she sighs and hangs lax in her own ropes, ponytail pointing down to the floor like an exclamation point. “You know, this is more comfortable than I thought it would be."

“Oh, we have many ways to fix that,” Eames says, before stationing Ariadne at Annie’s side. “Make sure she doesn’t fall,” he instructs, patting Ariadne on the head before he trots over to Arthur.

“I want a Spider-Man kiss.” Eames comes behind Arthur and plants his big, warm hands on Arthur’s shoulders. Arthur tilts his head back, more than happy to indulge him. 

“Doing a bang-up job, that one,” Eames adds, as he launches himself over the back of the couch to land next to Arthur. He steals Arthur’s wine glass for a tiny sip.

“You’re good at seeing potential in people,” Arthur agrees, leaning against Eames’s side as he watches Annie start from scratch on her chest harness. Eames hums against him, roping one arm over Arthur’s shoulders and pulling him closer.

“Found you, didn’t I?” Eames says, nuzzling into Arthur’s hair. Warmth spreads out from Arthur’s stomach, flushing him to his neck. 

“If you want to show Annie some other things, I don’t mind.” Arthur bites his lip. “You can use me.” He looks up at Eames, bashful suddenly. He’s hardly experienced, not like the people Eames usually brings when he’s teaching. 

“Really?” Eames sits forward so suddenly he almost up-ends Arthur’s wine glass. “That would be brilliant, I can show her that inversion we did, you know, the one where I ate your—-”

“We can skip that part,” Arthur coughs, pinking to his ears at the full-body memory of Eames tongue-fucking him while he dangled upside-down. “At least until they leave.”

“I don’t know, love, your arse looks so good like that it’ll be hard for me to resist,” Eames murmurs, close and conspiratorial against Arthur’s ear. 

“Done,” Annie announces, smiling as they both turn to her. She’s in another perfect suspension, with her arms out at her sides as she stretches and mimes a yawn. Eames narrows his eyes, assessing her work.

“Acceptable,” he says, only managing to keep the stern look on his face for a moment before he breaks out in a grin. “Get yourself down, and then you’re in for a treat. Arthur has volunteered his body for sin and science.”

Eames’s attention always prickles at Arthur’s skin, whether he’s smiling fondly at Arthur over a plate of fries or staring him down while he wrings another climax out of Arthur’s fucked-out body. Eames watches as Arthur strips down to his boxer-briefs, the forest-green Hugo Boss ones Eames likes, and while it still makes Arthur warm all over to kick off his jeans and stand under Eames’s suspension rig, Eames is different when they’re not alone. He’s just as affectionate and charming, stroking along Arthur’s skin as he sets him up for an inversion, dropping pet names as he binds each of Arthur’s calves to his thighs, but it’s toned down. Friendlier. He shows Annie every step, cutting his instruction with jokes and pleasantries, bringing out some of the showmanship Arthur remembers from Nadia’s party. Until now, he hadn’t really understood how Eames could tie someone who was _just_ a friend.

“Now, any time the wrists are going to bear weight, think of it more as a stirrup than a cinch, does that make sense?” Eames binds his wrists under Annie’s watchful eye, showing her the right amount of slack to allow Arthur to grip the rope. Arthur’s usually hard by now, but between Annie and Ariadne staring at him, and Eames’s Teacher Voice being directed at someone other than him, Arthur’s more curious than turned on. 

He still gets the same dizzy rush when Eames hauls him into the air. It’s vulnerable and thrilling, hanging with his legs spread and his head a foot off the floor. He tugs on his wrist-leads, shifting his weight as Eames circles around him and hauls him higher. 

“There are all sorts of possibilities when you get your sub at just the right height,” he says, stepping in front of Arthur’s face until Arthur’s nose grazes against the fly of his jeans. He’d given Eames a different kind of Spider-Man-kiss the last time they’d done this.

“Duly noted,” Annie says dryly. Arthur has too much blood to his head to blush any further, at least.

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” Ariadne mutters under her breath. 

“No,” Eames whispers, scandalized. “I thought you came to me intact, Arthur, I’m _appalled_.”

“Pure as the driven snow,” Ariadne adds, and Arthur doesn’t need to see her face. He’d know that smug look anywhere.

“My favorite kind.” Eames stokes along Arthur’s cheek before he slowly brings Arthur back to the ground.

“Don’t listen to her,” Arthur says, glaring at Ariadne as Eames eases him down to his back.

“You know I’m teasing, love,” Eames hums, before clearing his throat and looking up at Annie. “Once they’re down, always give a moment’s rest before standing them up, otherwise we risk...?”

“Orthostatic hypotension,” Annie pipes up.

Eames sighs. “You can just say ‘fainting’, Annie dear.” At least Ariadne snickers at that, too. Eames gives her a fond look as he settles behind Arthur. “Go get me three thirty-foot lengths, the eight millimeter.”

Annie disappears as Eames urges Arthur to lean back against his chest. Arthur’s nowhere close to the usual hazy space he’s in when Eames ties him, but he settles back against Eames and smiles, happy for the contact. Eames is warm even through his soft, old Buzzcocks t-shirt.

“You know I don’t get jealous,” Eames says, freeing Arthur’s legs to stretch them out in front of him.

“Not even a little bit?” Arthur teases, scooting back and wiggling his toes.

Eames hums. “A touch, perhaps, but I’d be more concerned than anything if you’d made it this far along in life without sucking a cock or two. Or at least _awed_ , as that would make you some kind of cocksucking prodigy.”

“I’m that good?”

Eames slides his hand under Arthur’s chin and turns him to look up. “You’re perfect, Arthur.” Eames kisses him, and there’s nothing else in the world for a moment. 

There’s a soft thud as Annie drops three hanks of rope on the floor. Eames murmurs a _thank you_ and strokes his thumb along Arthur’s jaw. “Think you can do another?”

“Definitely,” Arthur agrees. He kisses Eames and hops to his feet, not feeling the least bit faint.

Eames puts him through two more suspensions, a forward-facing one and a swan dive that really tests the flexibility of Arthur’s hamstrings. Ariadne (rightly) calls him a show-off and Annie asks a dozen questions about lead lines and weight distribution, all of which Eames answers patiently. His hands never leave Arthur’s body.

“Don’t tell Arthur, because it’ll go straight to his head, but I’ve never known anyone to take to rope this beautifully,” Eames stage-whispers to Annie as he runs his fingers down Arthur’s thigh. “Don’t expect most people to do a split like this.”

Arthur smiles and arches, stretching his legs that much further. 

“ _Yuck_. He does that on your dick, doesn’t he?” Ariadne rolls her eyes, arms folded over her chest as she tilts her head to stare at Arthur. 

“A gentleman never tells,” Eames says, his lupine grin speaking for itself. After a few more questions from Annie, and a nifty trick that gets Arthur’s legs above his head, Eames lets him down and deposits him on the couch.

“I’m famished,” Eames proclaims, collapsing next to Arthur. “What are you in the mood for, pet?”

“Mmm, Thai,” Arthur responds, because he knows it will make both Ariadne and Eames happy. Eames tosses his phone to Annie and puts her in charge of ordering.

“Budge up,” Eames tells Arthur, wrestling him to splay across his chest as he inches against the back of the couch. He pets through Arthur’s hair, a smile playing across his lips. “You did well.”

“Not like you had me do anything hard,” Arthur says, smirking as he snuggles in closer to Eames’s body heat. He’s still wearing nothing but his underwear, and Eames is the closest source of warmth. The heat’s off today, tempering the usual greenhouse climate of Eames’s place. 

“I mean it,” Eames says. “You’re brilliant. I was wondering, if you’re interested, and I understand if you aren’t, I won’t take it personally, I promise—”

“What, Eames?”

“If you’d sub for me the next time I do a demo. Nadia asked me to do something next month, I still need to get back to her. If it’s too much, I won’t—”

“Yes.” Arthur leans up onto his elbow so he can look Eames in the face, effectively halting Eames’s litany of mitigation. “Yes, I’d love to.” 

“Really?” Eames asks, with a guarded smile. “I wasn’t sure. I remember you not liking an audience.”

“I don’t think I knew what I was feeling.” It’s true. That night’s still a tangle of sound and color—excitement, shame, jealousy, fear. The thought of being up on stage _now_ with Eames just makes him warm all over.

“I did,” Eames whispers. “I knew I wanted you. I wanted you terribly, Arthur.”

Arthur’s chest constricts, tighter than any rope Eames has ever wrapped around him. Eames pulls him closer and kisses his shoulder. 

“Your phone is bleating,” Annie announces cheerfully, plunking herself down on the couch and sliding Eames’s battered cell across the coffee table.

“Would you be a love and find Arthur’s shirt, sweet apprentice?” Eames smiles at her put-upon face as he accepts the phone. He quirks an eyebrow and shows Arthur the message. It’s an appointment reminder for tomorrow morning.

“Can’t believe I have to pay money to let someone stick me with needles, I’ve plenty of friends who would do it for free.”

Arthur inhales sharply. Eames is getting tested. Arthur had gone the day before yesterday. It’s not like he’d forgotten that they were doing it, but Eames had bought a truly staggering quantity of condoms and done his level best to make Arthur forget everything but his name. Arthur’s glad to have the distraction of Annie throwing his clothes at him.

Their food arrives and soon they’re all spread out around the couch, Annie cross-legged while Ariadne sits on a floor cushion beneath her, Eames with one arm slung over Arthur and a pair of chopsticks poised between his fingers. Arthur’s so used to eating with Eames now, the easy way they share everything. Eames steals a dumpling from the mountain of food on the coffee table and feeds it to Arthur, just to do the same for himself. Arthur’s half-way through his third Eames-fed bite of drunken noodles when he notices Ariadne staring at them.

“Oh, God, you two are so cute it’s gross.” She wrinkles her nose. “Does he cut your meat for you, too?”

Eames had, in fact, sliced the last steak he’d cooked for Arthur, along with his potatoes and perfectly-tender asparagus. And had, in fact, fed Arthur neat little bites while he sat at Eames’s feet. Arthur keeps that information to himself.

“Ari, you are not going to win at meat jokes, so just quit while you’re ahead,” Arthur says, punctuating it with a bite of tamarind duck right off Eames’s chopsticks. Ariadne and Annie dissolve into giggles, and Eames’s laughter is a soft rumble against his side.

“Are you excited about your first con, Eames?” Annie asks, setting her empty plate down on the table.

“I’m excited to see this one all dressed up,” Eames replies, grinning lecherously down at Arthur. “We still have to figure out what I’m going to wear, don’t we, dearest?”

“Oh my God, wait, I almost forgot—” Annie springs up and goes to find her purse. She comes back with a comic book and flips to one page, her thumb holding it in place as she shows it to all of them. “We have to do this.”

It’s the new Nolan run of Batman, heavy on the gritty realism and noir styling. Arthur stares at the splash page, a grin spreading over his face. Ariadne lets out a delighted shriek.

“I’d be—”

“And he’d be—”

“And that’s—”

“Annie, this is fucking genius,” Ariadne says, pointing at the page as her voice rises an octave in excitement.

“That only gives us ten days,” Arthur says.

“Oh, come on, you’ve made more in less,” Ariadne says.

Eames leans in, his eyes narrowing as he stares at the character Annie has clearly chosen for him. He traces his finger over the image and nods, smiling.

“I can make a mask like that.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This isn’t just for show?” Eames says softly, keeping his voice level. Arthur is a dream. Arthur is something crafted from Eames’s fevered imagination and wrought into rubber and muscle. Arthur is something Eames prays he never wakes up from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see the note at the end of the chapter for more specific warnings about the new tags.
> 
> We are getting so close to the end, friends! I can't believe it. I would love to write some one-shots for these boys once I'm done with this, so if anyone feels like prompting me on tumblr, [my ask is open!](https://saltandbyrne.tumblr.com/) And anon is on, so let your freak flag fly. Thank you for reading!

_“G.C.P.D., coming through!”_

Ariadne can project. Her voice rings out over the hum of the crowd, bouncing off the hallway walls as she pushes Annie in front of her. Despite the crowded room, everyone parts for them as they enter the main lobby, people grinning and snapping pictures. 

Arthur can mug it up when he feels like it. He frowns in each shot, turns to make sure his badge is showing, and keeps his hands firm around Eames’s wrists. 

Their entrance had been Annie’s idea. Ariadne and Arthur in their Gotham City Police Department blues stand behind their captive villains, Annie looking radiant while Eames glowers at everyone in sight from behind his mask. They’re as close to the splash page as possible, with Bane and Catwoman glaring smugly as John Blake and Renee Montoya lead them through the gothic arch of the Gotham City Police Headquarters. 

It had taken every resource Arthur had and several sleepless nights, but they’d managed to finish Eames’s Bane costume in time. They’d abjectly ransacked more than one Army-Navy store for the clothes, and Eames had torn apart an old asbestos respirator to make his mask. He’d even let Ariadne crop his undercut a little higher so he could hide his hair under the middle strap of the mask. He looks like a different person, except for the eyes.

There’s a madness that comes with rushing to make a costume. Arthur loves it as much as he hates it, that all-consuming focus that drowns out everything else until he realizes it’s 3:00 AM and half his fingertips are bleeding from hand-stitching his shirt-collar. Eames had submerged himself right alongside Arthur, brewing coffee in his ancient French press at midnight and making a dozen runs to the local hardware stores until he found the perfect “bendy bit” for Bane’s face-plate. Arthur hasn’t had that much fun prepping for a con in _years_.

It had been hard to leave their hotel room once Eames was dressed, or at least, in costume. The low hang of his cargo pants and the tactical vest he’s wearing don’t do much to preserve his modesty. Eames’s shoulders ripple as he strains at the handcuffs behind his back, and Arthur’s glad for the extra reps he’d enticed Eames into doing. Eames looks huge and terrifying and Arthur has never wanted to be on his knees so badly in his life. He’s glad for the loose fit of his own pants as he presses himself against Eames’s back for a picture.

“Told you we’d be a hit,” Arthur murmurs, stroking his hand up Eames’s bare arm in between pictures.

“They’re all looking at you, love,” Eames says, his voice muffled and odd through the mouthpiece. 

“I’m wearing a turtleneck and a walkie-talkie,” Arthur says. “No one is paying _me_ any mind.”

In all honesty, Annie’s getting most of the attention. She poses with a series of pouts and arches that would make Eartha Kitt proud, squirming in Ariadne’s arms. Ariadne’s Montoya outfit is perfect, meaning it’s as nondescript and unflattering as Arthur’s. She’s barely wearing any makeup and her hair is pulled back into a tight, formal bun. 

“You look so gay,” Arthur teases fondly as the four of them line up for a group photo. 

“Thank you,” Ariadne coos, bumping her hip against his before they both straighten up and look tough. 

“Do people usually ask for this many pictures?” Eames asks, flexing again as they pose for _Geeks Out_.

“Yes,” Annie says decisively, just as Arthur says, “Not this many.” 

They have some time to kill before their Group Costume entry, so Annie and Ariadne leave them to get bubble tea and check out a panel on Afrofuturism. The Artist’s Alley is always good at this con, and Arthur secretly wants to see if anything catches Eames’s attention. Eames had crafted him a gorgeous set of restraints, and it would be nice to get him something as a thank-you. 

They’re bent over a series of Gotham City Sirens pinups when Arthur jumps. It’s not like Eames to smack his ass in public, at least without any warning. Eames stares at him, equally bewildered as they both turn around.

_“I’d know that ass anywhere.”_

Arthur’s entire body goes stiff. _Nash_. His Red Hood helmet is tucked under one arm, and his eyes are rimmed with black eyeliner. They’re even bigger than usual as they sweep over Arthur.

“John Blake, I like it,” Nash says, nodding as if Arthur still needs his approval. Arthur crosses his arms over his chest.

“Nash, this is Eames,” Arthur says briskly, as Eames steps inches from Nash’s face.

Eames takes Nash’s hand to shake, just to grab his wrist and pull him forward. His other hand locks around Nash’s elbow, holding him tight as Nash’s helmet clatters to the ground.

“Tell me, Nash, how would you like it if I hauled off and slapped your arse right now?”

“I... uh...” Nash stutters, sucking in a breath as Eames squeezes him. Eames’s eyes blaze over his mask.

“Now, I won’t do that, on account of I’m not a detestable sack of human excrement like you are, but what on earth makes you think you have the right to do that to Arthur?”

“I—we—uh—we used to date, Arthur, tell him—”

“If you touch my boyfriend again,” Eames says, voice low and clipped through the mask, “I will shove that bloody helmet so far up your arse they’ll throw you a baby shower.” He shakes Nash off like he’s swatting away an insect. Arthur, caught in the crosshairs of shock and rabid arousal, gives Nash an icy smile.

“I’m just being friendly, Jesus,” Nash wheezes, stooping to pick up his helmet. He dusts it off and tucks it back under his arm, sneering at Arthur. “Used to like it when I did that.”

“Don’t,” Arthur says as Eames lunges at him. His hand settles on Eames’s chest, where he’s warm and ready to fight for Arthur’s honor (such as it is). “He’s not worth it.” And he’s not. In all the rush to get ready, Arthur hadn’t even considered whether Nash was going to be here. For all the times Nash had hurt him and gaslighted him and made Arthur question himself, it’s immensely satisfying to realize that any lingering space he’d occupied in Arthur’s heart has been claimed by better things.

“Nice seeing you, Nash,” Arthur calls, leaning in as Eames sneaks a possessive arm across his shoulders. Eames glares at Nash’s attempt at a sarcastic smile, and keeps glaring until Nash has disappeared back into the crowd. Eames lets out a long breath that hisses through his mask.

“I’m sorry, Arthur, you can defend yourself, I just—”

“But I like it when you do it,” Arthur admits, pulling Eames in by his belt loops. He can’t kiss Eames in the mask, but he presses his lips to the grill over his mouth. He can tell Eames is smiling.

“What an absolute _cunt_ that man is,” Eames says succinctly. 

“I can’t entirely hate him,” Arthur says.

 _“Can I?”_ Eames retorts, arching one eyebrow over his mask.

Arthur laughs. “The reason I wanted that slutty Robin outfit you like so much—”

“ _The shorts_ ,” Eames says reverently.

“—was so I could show Nash what he was missing, or something stupid like that. But it’s why I met you.”

“I reserve the right to unrepentantly hate him,” Eames concludes.

Arthur nods. “You and a lot of other people.”

“Anyone who would let you go is a fool, Arthur.” Eames’s hand closes over his neck, squeezing softly. “But I suppose I’m _marginally_ grateful that he’s the fool who sent you to me.”

“Come on,” Arthur says, taking Eames’s hand in his own. “Let’s go look at pretty things. I think the guy who drew that Tom of Finland Batman is here.”

“Maybe he’ll have a Bane,” Eames muses, following Arthur down the jam-packed aisles of tables. Arthur grins. He knows exactly what he’s going to buy for Eames.

~

Arthur’s as guilty as anyone of checking his phone too often. As they line up for Group Costume, Arthur isn’t the only one scrolling through his feed. He looks up to find Annie and Ariadne both absorbed, which is hardly unusual, and Eames squinting at his phone and tapping away, which is more noteworthy. Eames is divorced from technology in a way that Arthur finds jarring and inspiring all at once. Eames would accept orders via snail mail and carrier pigeon if he had a choice. He buys all his groceries in person, from small family stores and the farmer’s market by his house, and he still physically calls restaurants on his beaten-up excuse for a phone to have their food delivered. 

“This damned thing,” Eames mutters, his frown tangible over his mask. Arthur raises a questioning eyebrow.

“You okay?”

“No, I’m—ah, there, got it.” Eames goes still, his eyes flicking across his screen as he scrolls down. “Well, that’s good.”

“You gonna make me guess?” Arthur says.

“It’s the patient portal thing from the health center,” Eames says, his voice soft through the mask.

“Oh,” Arthur says, his brain lagging a second behind before he looks up at Eames. “ _Oh_.”

“Pure as the fallen snow, am I,” Eames preens, puffing out his chest until his tactical vest looks like it might actually snap.

“Oh,” Arthur repeats dumbly, his face breaking out in a grin that does not belong on the face of a world-weary Gotham cop. Arthur had gotten his test results back right before they’d left. 

“It just says I’m… _oh._ ” How Eames can sulk with half his face covered is beyond Arthur. He narrows his eyes at the phone as Arthur’s grin falters. “I’m low on Vitamin D.”

“Vitamin D,” Arthur repeats, flooded with relief that it’s not anything serious. He steps closer to Eames, putting on his best concerned face.

“I’m gonna give you so much Vitamin D, baby,” Arthur manages to croon before he cracks up. 

“Gross,” Ariadne says without looking up from her phone. Annie’s smile twitches. Everyone else around them is too occupied with pre-show jitters to pay much attention. Eames ignores all of them. 

“Suppose this means we’re good to...?” Eames trails off, eyebrows up, and eyes wide and suggestive.

“Yeah,” Arthur says, stepping into the warm circle of Eames’s arms and smiling. He’d gotten a matching clean bill from his doctor, not that he’d expected anything different. Still, there’s something official about it that makes Arthur nervous and warm all over. It’s old-fashioned at best, with half the world on PrEP, but it’s a tangible declaration of trust that still means something to Arthur. Unlike nearly every other man Arthur’s slept with, Eames has never pushed him on it, never said anything until Arthur brought it up. 

Eames slides his hand under Arthur’s chin and presses their foreheads together, closing his eyes for a moment. It’s a tenderness at odds with his costume, his hand warm against Arthur’s skin even as the rough leather of his gauntlet grazes against him. It’s just right.

“Well, then. Let’s get this fucking contest over with, shall we?” Eames steps back and spreads his arms wide, flexing his shoulders and turning for Arthur. “How do I look?”

~

They come in third place, upstaged by an impressive array of _Sailor Moon_ drag queens and a flawless crew of Freelancers from _Saga_.

“No one can beat a sexy arachnid sociopath, babe,” Ariadne says, rubbing circles on the small of Annie’s back. Annie’s got a competitive streak as long as her whip, and Arthur silently promises himself that he is _never_ playing a board game with her.

“Those legs,” Eames marvels as they watch The Stalk maneuver herself off the stage. Each jointed, spindly leg has its own motor, setting them to click and whir in an unsettling, inhuman pattern. Arthur honestly can’t begrudge them the win.

“I need a nap,” Ariadne says, linking her arm with Annie’s. “Are we going out for dinner later?”

Annie tilts her head, an especially feline gesture with the points of her goggles sticking up from the crown of her head. “I’m thinking room service and then the after-after party in Javier’s room?”

“Oh, God, yes, I want to eat over-priced fries with no pants on,” Ariadne says earnestly, smiling up at Annie. 

“You can escort me to our room,” Annie purrs, leaning in until her ruby-red lips are almost grazing Ariadne’s ear, “Officer.”

Arthur can hear Ariadne swallow. They say their farewells and exit the main room, leaving a wake of gawking fanboys (and girls) behind them. Arthur has no idea how Annie walks in those boots.

“Think she’s eating more than fries,” Eames stage-whispers as he takes Arthur’s arm. 

“Jealous?” asks Arthur guilelessly, leading Eames through the crowd. “We can get room service, too.”

Eames’s soft growl is so perfectly in-character it makes Arthur a little swoony. He cleaves close to Eames as they make their way to the elevators, savoring the last glimpses of Eames in costume. It’s not his fault the bad guys are always the hottest.

“I’m sure you want to take that mask off,” Arthur hums sympathetically, tracing over the thick leather straps where they’re digging into Eames’s cheeks. “Shame, though. You look really fucking hot in it.”

Eames can say so much with only one eyebrow. Arthur leans as much of his body against Eames as possible as he reaches for the elevator button.

“Arthur!”

Arthur turns to find a familiar face smiling at him. “Javier!” Arthur says, immediately accepting a huge bear hug. Javier is as affectionate as he is muscular, and Arthur’s still vibrating from his hug when he claps Eames on the back.

“Eames, this is Javier,” Arthur says, reassured that Eames isn’t off-put by displays of affection from strangers. 

He accepts Javier’s greeting with his usual charm. “Eames, pleasure to meet you.” 

Javier turns to Arthur and mouths “Oh My God” before he turns the full force of his smile on Eames.

“ _The_ Mr. Eames?” Javier splays a hand over his chest, momentarily covering the Batwoman logo of his t-shirt. “That harness you made for Arthur was _spectacular_.”

“Javier was my Batman,” Arthur explains. Eames’s eyebrows rise in understanding.

“Least I could do for my groomsman,” Javier quips, and Arthur smiles. That had been a lovely wedding, even if Nash had acted like a horse’s ass after too many signature cocktails.

“You two looked excellent, I saw the pictures,” Eames says. Eames would be a perfect guest at a wedding, and Arthur dimly hopes someone gets married soon so he can finally get Eames into a tux.

“Not as good as you two,” Javier says, gesturing at Arthur and Eames’s outfits. “I fucking knew you were going to do John Blake. Right after I read it I turned to Patrick and said, Arthur’s already embroidering a police shirt, mark my word. And your Bane, holy shit,” he adds, shaking his head as he looks Eames up and down.

“I can’t take all the credit, it was Annie’s idea. Ariadne’s girlfriend,” Arthur clarifies when Javier gives him a momentarily puzzled look.

“Yes, yes! I can’t wait to meet her. Ari promised she’d stop by later. And I expect to see both of you there,” he adds, pointing at each of them in turn.

“Javier and Patrick’s room parties are legendary,” Arthur says.

“We’ll do our very best,” Eames says, oozing charm as he gently places his hand on Arthur’s arm.

“I’ll let you go, but first—” Javier pulls his phone from his pocket. “Can I get a picture?” 

“Of course,” Eames says, straightening up and winding his hands behind his back. “Cuff me, darling.”

Arthur slaps his handcuffs back on Eames and poses for a few pictures. Javier claps with delight as Arthur pushes Eames into the next empty elevator, hustling him off like he’s about to book him at one of the Art Deco precincts of Gotham City. He presses Eames against one of the glass walls of the elevator.

“I think you’re enjoying this far too much,” Eames says, turning to look over his shoulder.

“Quiet, perp,” Arthur hushes, smirking as he moves to undo the quick-release latches on Eames’s handcuffs. They’d gotten a safety pair that don’t require a key. Eames could easily get himself out of them if he needed to. Arthur has seen too many lost keys at conventions to risk it.

“No, don’t,” Eames says, turning in Arthur’s hands to face him. “I want to try something.”

Eames is the perfect person to cosplay Bane. He says enough with his eyes that Arthur’s pulse quickens in an instant. 

“Okay,” Arthur says, molding himself to Eames’s front. “Is it something we’ve talked about before?”

“Yes,” Eames says. That’s a long list. They’ve whiled away hours in each other’s beds trading fantasies and never-have-I-evers. Arthur slides his hand up to hook onto one of the straps of Eames’s vest. 

“Surprise me,” he says. He trusts Eames, and Eames should trust him enough to know that Arthur won’t do anything he doesn’t want to do. Eames’s eyes slope up, pleased.

The bell chimes as the elevator arrives at their floor. “Take me in, Officer Blake.”

Arthur leads Eames down the hallway, earning them a wary glance from a couple in street clothes and a nod of approval from a woman in a Hawkgirl ensemble. Arthur swipes the key card for their room and turns the door handle, and then his face is pressed against the wall.

Arthur’s heart beat kicks up as Eames wrenches one of Arthur’s arms behind him and snaps what must be a handcuff on his wrist. He’s not surprised, exactly, but it still knocks his breath out when Eames forces his other hand back and cuffs his wrists together. Eames isn’t being gentle, and Arthur grins as his face bounces against the rough hotel wallpaper.

“Did you think you’d take me so easily, Mr. Blake?” Eames growls, leaning his weight against Arthur, the metal grillwork of his mask digging into Arthur’s cheek.

“Fuck you,” Arthur spits, trying to wrench his body back and finding Eames an immovable force behind him.

“In time,” Eames snarls, snaking his arm through Arthur’s elbows and hauling him off the wall. 

Arthur fights him every step of the way as Eames shoves him into the bathroom. He could get out of Eames’s grip if he really needed to, but Eames still isn’t making it easy. Arthur’s panting when Eames throws him against the sink, sending tiny bottles of shampoo flying, his heart racing and his neck straining as Eames grabs him by the hair. 

“Your spirit is admirable.” Eames is so close to himself but just different enough that Arthur’s skin prickles. He grunts as Eames shakes him and forces Arthur to look in the mirror. 

Eames looms behind him, huge and menacing in his mask and fatigues. “Do you see a good man, John Blake?”

Arthur turns his giddy smile into a sneer. Eames is pressed right against him, the fly of his pants grinding against Arthur’s ass suggestively. 

“I see a man in chains,” Eames continues, stroking the back of his hand along Arthur’s cheek as Arthur tries to look away from him. He’s not supposed to like this, or at least he’s not supposed to admit that he likes it. 

“You won’t get away with this,” Arthur challenges, meeting Eames’s eyes in the mirror. 

“Oh, I will,” Eames says, releasing his hold on Arthur’s hair and wrapping a thick arm around Arthur’s chest. Arthur bucks against him, bumping the back of his head on Eames’s mask hard enough to make Eames grunt in surprise. He recovers quickly, sliding his arm up until he has Arthur in a neck lock. Arthur can’t help the smile that flashes briefly across his face.

“You fight well, but you won’t win,” Eames says, voice gruff through the mask. He slides the zipper down Arthur’s police jacket and shoves it open, tucking the nylon around Arthur’s sides. 

“You can’t fight what you are, Mr. Blake.” Eames keeps his voice cool and collected, a knowing monotone that’s different from his usual lilting intonation. Eames is _so good_ at this. Arthur throws himself into it, turning his head away as Eames’s fingers curl into the hem of his shirt. 

“You don’t know shit about me.” Arthur lets his lips rise in mock disgust as Eames bunches up his shirt, laying Arthur’s stomach bare. 

“Wrong again,” Eames says, shoving Arthur’s shirt up and dragging his thumb over one of Arthur’s nipples. Arthur hisses, fighting the urge to buck into Eames’s touch. His skin prickles where it’s exposed to the air, at odds with the hot press of Eames against him and the heavy layers of the police uniform. “You defend a city of sinners, and yet you’re ashamed that you want me to touch you.”

“You’re a monster,” Arthur says, snarling and putting more force into his struggle as Eames goes for his belt. Eames hums, thoughtful, and makes quick work of Arthur’s belt and his fly, impressive considering he’s one-handed and working by feel. His arm is warm and tight against Arthur’s neck, and while that’s not the only reason Arthur’s hard enough to spring out of his boxer-briefs when Eames shoves them down, it’s certainly not helping.

“Are you afraid of monsters, Mr. Blake?” Eames grips his cock and it’s all Arthur can do to stay on his feet. Even Eames’s hand around him is different, a rougher tug and pull than his usual finesse. “Or are you afraid you’ll become one?”

Arthur would be in a puddle by now, but John Blake wouldn’t give it up so easily. Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, turns his head as Eames strokes him to the tip and circles his thumb over the slit. Arthur throbs like one live nerve when Eames pitches his hips and ruts against him, hard enough that Arthur can feel the threat of Eames’s cock through his fatigues. 

Arthur moans through his slack lips when Eames slips his hold on Arthur’s neck free. It’s immediately replaced with the rough shove of Arthur’s pants past his hips, freeing up more bare skin to rub against Eames’s crotch. The rough material scratches at Arthur’s ass, chafing his skin as Arthur skirts back and forth between Eames’s rough hand around his dick and Eames’s cock pressing against him.

“Your body is an honest vessel,” Eames says, squeezing Arthur’s cock for emphasis. “Men cannot conceal their animal selves, nor should we.” He leaves Arthur’s cock bobbing in agreement against the empty air. He’s so fucking hard. Eames peels back from him and shoves his own pants down with the same brute efficiency he’d shown Arthur. Arthur dances onto his toes as Eames’s bare cock grazes over the crease of his ass.

“I suggest you spit,” Eames whispers, and Arthur can’t help but meet Eames’s eyes in the mirror for a moment. This is one of Arthur’s biggest fantasies, getting fucked with nothing but spit to ease the way. Eames arches an eyebrow as Arthur grimaces and spits a mess into Eames’s palm. Eames still reaches over to one of their toiletry bags and squeezes out a healthy dollop of lube, because he’s not actually going to tear Arthur up, but Arthur could hold up a perfect-ten scorecard for Eames’s attention to detail.

Eames has made an art out of finger-fucking. He can spend hours opening Arthur up, endlessly patient and dextrous, until Arthur’s boneless and begging for it. The way Eames shoves two fingers into him is brutal and charmless, hitting the upper register of Arthur’s pain threshold and making his eyes roll back with need. It should hurt, that’s the only way John Blake would let himself enjoy it. Arthur grunts as Eames fucks into him, putting on a perfunctory struggle against his handcuffs. 

“I’m not here to force you, Mr. Blake.” Eames’s fingers keep going, stretching Arthur ruthlessly open. “I’m here to free you.”

“Bane,” Arthur snarls through his teeth, going rigid as Eames curls his fingers _just_ right.

“Tell me what your heart desires, Mr. Blake, or I will leave you here, spread out like a breeding sow for your fellow liars to find.” Eames sinks his fingers deep, holds them while his thumb rubs soothing circles against Arthur’s heated skin.

“Fuck me,” Arthur mumbles, his face cast down to the floor in surrender. He lets his shoulders stoop and his eyes fall closed, losing himself in being someone who’d have any reservations about Bane rawing him in a public bathroom. 

“You can do better,” Eames says, pulling his fingers out and leaving an empty ache. Arthur takes a shaky breath and arches his back, stretching his fingertips out until they brush against Eames’s bare skin. Eames drags the bare head of his dick against Arthur’s hole, circling around him and Jesus, fuck, could Eames possibly have picked a better day to go bareback for the first time? 

Arthur forces himself to look up and meet Eames’s eyes in the mirror, too giddy to put anything other than hunger in his voice. _“Fuck me raw.”_

 _“Christ—”_ Eames hisses, fumbling for more lube and slicking himself up with a messy slash of his wrist. He lines his cock up and pushes inside Arthur, steady and thick and just this side of too much.

The physical difference isn’t too noteworthy for Arthur. It’s smoother, slicker, but mostly it’s still Eames inside him, as drool-inducingly good as always. The effect on Eames is more dramatic. 

Eames looks like he’s going to shake apart. His hands tremble where they’re planted on Arthur’s hips, and Arthur can guess at the quiver of his lips under his mask. Eames’s head falls back and he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he stares up at the ceiling. He bottoms out and grinds into Arthur, breath coming out in jerky puffs through the mask. 

“Fuck—” Arthur moans, long and low as Eames collects himself. It’s a visible effort, Eames’s breath falling back to rhythm, the lines of his shoulders settling back to their gruff hunch. He tests his grip on Arthur’s hips and then starts to move, pulling Arthur back to meet him, harder with each thrust. Arthur just holds on, easy in Eames’s grip and gasping when he pulls out. Eames smacks the head of his cock against Arthur’s hole, making a satisfied hum at Arthur’s plaintive whine.

“Will you sing for me, little bird?”

Arthur dissolves. He doesn’t know if he’s saying _Eames_ or _Bane_ or every vowel in the alphabet as Eames fucks him. Arthur’s breath puffs against the mirror, leaving wet streaks that drip down to the faux-marble countertop. Arthur’s sweating, too, stuck in his uniform while sweat beads on his forehead and pools in the dip of his spine. When Eames reaches around to stroke his cock, Arthur bites his lip and comes so fast it might be a record. 

“This is your truth, John Blake,” Eames growls, his voice turning shaky for all his commitment to staying in-character. He looks Arthur in the eyes when he comes, bright and brilliant over the gleaming black of his mask.

Eames pants for breath against his back, holding Arthur close as he buries himself deep. His hands shake as he undoes the safety-latch of Arthur’s handcuffs. They clatter to the ground with a resounding echo off the tiles.

“Arthur,” Eames whispers, barely audible through his mask. His hips twitch gently against Arthur, aftershocks that echo through Arthur’s own body. He twists his freed wrists and braces himself against the counter.

“That was so fucking good, Eames,” Arthur sighs, willing himself to hold still even as his muscles begin to scream for attention. He’s never been able to fully savor Eames going soft inside him. This will be so nice when they’re in bed, or at least on a horizontal surface.

Eames makes a wounded noise as he finally slips out. Arthur goes to stand only to have Eames push him back down, palms big and warm as they spread Arthur’s cheeks apart.

“Look at you,” Eames says, his voice awe-struck. Arthur quivers under him, his breath catching as a warm line of Eames’s come snakes its way down his balls.

“I need, fuck,” Eames says, grunting in frustration as he reaches for the straps of his mask. “Fucking thing off me.” Eames frees himself and tosses the mask blindly behind him. It clatters against the bathtub. Arthur smiles at the deep indents red-lining his skin. That can’t have been comfortable. 

Arthur’s expecting a kiss, or one of Eames’s Shakespearean litanies of praise whispered against his ear, or something other than Eames clearing the counter next to the sink with one grand sweep of his arm. Arthur’s staring at the tin of Eames’s Royal Crown pomade rolling over to the tub when Eames spins him around and picks him up, planting him on the counter with his back to the mirror and his ass hanging off the edge.

“Eames, what—”

Eames sinks to his knees and pushes Arthur’s legs up and then his mouth is _there_ , hot and searching as Arthur’s brain reboots. No one has ever done this to Arthur, and no one will ever do it this well, he’s sure of it. Eames growls and dog-licks his way to Arthur’s tender hole, kissing and nosing at him like he could drown between Arthur’s legs. He seals his lips over Arthur and sucks, moaning at the taste of himself and dipping his tongue deep inside. Arthur’s head hits the mirror with a _thunk_ , and he curses enough for both of them as Eames licks away any vestige of Arthur’s shame.

“Fucking gorgeous,” Eames mumbles, staggering back and collapsing into a disheveled pile against the side of the tub. Arthur melts off the counter, trusting his limbs to take him to Eames and not an inch further. He climbs into Eames’s lap, draping his arms around Eames’s shoulders and tracing over the angry red lines from his mask. 

“Eames, that was...” Arthur shakes his head, overcome suddenly by the sight of Eames’s hair. Freed from its confines under Eames’s mask, it’s sticking up in eight different directions, matted curls and angry tufts springing to life over the soft fuzz of his fresh undercut. Arthur nuzzles against it all, closing his eyes as he meets Eames for their first kiss since Eames had put the mask on. Eames’s mouth is filthy, and Arthur kisses him hard enough to taste it all. 

“I still want room service,” Eames exhales, leaning his head back against the rim of the tub as he smiles up at Arthur.

“Of course you do,” Arthur says. “Although I think Ariadne would be appalled that we’re both wearing pants.”

“Darling, I shall be naked as a newborn babe by the time my mediocre hamburger arrives. Or at least wearing one of those bathrobes. They’re quite soft.”

“Perfect,” Arthur says, smiling softly as he rakes his hands through Eames’s hair. “We need to shower, too.”

“They can just leave the food at the door, no one has to see what a ruined little minx you look,” Eames says. “I quite like you this way,” he adds, pulling Arthur down for another kiss. “And besides, I’m only going to ruin you all over again.”

“We have to go to Javier’s party later,” Arthur says, holding fast at the pained noise Eames makes.

“Arthur, I only have the energy to eat and fuck, and I can do both of those things without leaving this room,” Eames pouts, a normally compelling move that works against him now. A pouting Eames is so handsome, Arthur has to show him off.

“If we go to the party,” Arthur says, leaning down to trace one finger over Eames’s vest, “I’ll wear the shorts.”

“You brought the shorts?” Eames’s eyes go wide.

Arthur grins. “I brought the whole outfit.”

Eames presses his warm, open palm to Arthur’s cheek.

“You’re a witch, Arthur Levine.”

~

Arthur has had his seams flipped.

It’s a time-honored tradition in cosplay, especially among the more old-school crowds. He’s seen people lose points for safety pins and glue-tacked seams, seen people driven to tears over hot glue strings and panicked staples. Arthur’s always liked the meticulous perfection of sewing. His costumes could be worn inside-out and still stand proudly in front of the cruelest judges. 

Eames makes beautiful things. Standing off-stage, Arthur strokes his thumb over the buttery stitch-work of the tall collar Eames had set up along with all his other gear. A “posture collar,” Eames had called it. The rolled seams and decorative piping on the outside are flawless, with contrasting textures of leather that make the sloped edges glisten in the light. It’s just as beautiful on the inside. 

Eames had disappeared to use the bathroom before their demo started. There are some familiar faces in the crowd—Annie’s friend Tim and his husband, Eames’s terrifying friend Astrid and her impeccably-dressed partner. Arthur’s even had drinks with Nadia a few times. He could mingle with any of them, but he’s not in the mood for small talk with acquaintances. Annie’s away for work, and Ariadne had been offered a day of assisting on a photoshoot that would pay half her rent. 

Arthur fights the urge to pick at the laces of another piece as he looks out at the crowd. Even in nothing but the pair of charcoal-and-black Nasty Pig briefs Eames had surprised him with the night before, Arthur isn’t the least-clothed among them. Nadia’s wearing a knee-length latex dress that mimics a turtleneck from the front, just to reveal nothing but three intrepid straps holding it together in the back. She takes mincing steps onto the small stage, assisted by two men in matching black leather masks. They’re probably Eames’s handiwork. 

“Perfect timing.” Eames slides against him, wrapping an arm around Arthur’s naked waist and pulling him back against Eames’s chest. Eames is wearing his usual black Perry, with white stripes on the collar and sleeves this time. Pink laces wrap around the ankles of his boots, and his jeans are an acid-wash that’s an affront to God. He looks great. 

“Are you nervous?” Eames asks quietly. Arthur takes a deep breath, assessing himself. 

“Just jitters,” he shrugs, naming the hum under his skin. “Excited, mostly.”

“You’ll enchant them all, love.”

“I just have to stand there and look pretty, right?” Arthur quips, winking as Eames is summoned to the stage by Nadia. 

“Precisely,” Eames says, kissing Arthur before he bounds up on the stage. Eames does his introductions with his usual bluster and charm before offering Arthur his hand and bringing him up. 

“I’m very excited to be working with Arthur, who both is and has one of the loveliest bottoms I’ve ever known.”

Arthur rolls his eyes fondly, but he still smiles at the appreciative applause. 

“Today, we’ll be demonstrating some heavy bondage,” Eames says, cupping his hands over Arthur’s shoulders and sliding them down his arms. Arthur shivers. 

“Remember, it’s just us, love,” Eames says softly before he grabs a set of leather cuffs.

Arthur nods.

As fun as it is to both watch and listen to Eames pontificate, Arthur lets himself sink into his body. Eames’s voice fades into a rumble in the background, a familiar current that washes over Arthur’s skin along with the restraints Eames buckles to his wrists and ankles, to his arms and thighs, the blindfold around his eyes, and finally the heavy collar around his neck. 

There’s a palpable awe through the crowd as Eames laces him into it. The collar settles right under Arthur’s chin and doesn’t stop until its delicate point is nestled at his collarbone. It’s at least ten inches tall, forcing Arthur’s chin up and his shoulders back to accommodate it. Eames threads the laces methodically, gradually tightening the leather around Arthur’s throat until he can _just_ breathe.

“Beautiful,” Eames whispers in his ear, a soft touch before he resumes his booming stage voice to describe neck injuries and the signs of a pinched nerve. Arthur lets that soft darkness pool inside him, lets it spread out over his skin along with Eames’s hands and the hungry gaze of the crowd. 

He’d hated it, the last time he’d been here, knowing that all those people were watching them. Thinking Eames was just lining him up like another conquest. Eames may have conquered him, but it’s Arthur who gets to stand on stage with him like the spoils of war. 

Eames binds his hands behind his back and puts him through a stack of custom gear and a dozen grueling positions. Everything around him fades and the minutes slow to amber as Arthur trembles for Eames’s pleasure, encased in leather like a homecoming. All of it smells like Eames.

“Keep your eyes closed, pet.” Eames unbuckles his blindfold and light floods against Arthur’s eyelids. He sways against Eames’s steady presence, still hobbled at the ankles and his forearms tucked back into a sleek armbinder. 

“This is the most important part,” Eames says to the crowd before he crushes Arthur against him and kisses him. Arthur blinks back to the world and it’s just them, just the river-rocks of Eames’s eyes and the gentle current of his mouth pressed against Arthur’s. Applause laps against them, winding around Arthur as his vision clears and Eames smiles at him, proud and private. “Well done, darling.”

Eames slowly peels him free from the restraints, clinking buckle after buckle and dragging whipcord-laces through the eyelets of his collar. Finally, Arthur is left wearing nothing but his underwear and the envious looks of no small number of audience members.

At Eames’s insistence, Arthur takes a modest bow for the crowd. He clasps his hands behind his back as Eames invites questions, rubbing his fingers over the soft dips left behind by the wrist cuffs. 

“Is that collar for sale?” asks a towering woman with frost-blue hair and a riding crop dangling from her wrist.

“I’m afraid everything you see up here was custom made for Arthur.” Eames gives him an appreciative look before beaming back at the woman. “But I’d be happy to make you one of your own, come talk to me after.”

She nods and gives the woman next to her a pat on the knee.

“And while I urge all of you to buy many, _many_ lovely and heinously expensive pieces of gear from me,” Eames says, earning him some knowing snorts and open laughs, “don’t forget that the most beautiful bondage comes from the partner who gives you the gift of their submission. From someone who’s brave enough to trust you. I’ll take Arthur in Scotch tape and shoelaces over fancy restraints on anyone else.”

Arthur bites his lip. He’s used to attention, but no one has ever made him feel the way Eames does as he smiles at Arthur under the soft glow of the dungeon lights. When Eames kisses him, even Arthur’s seams are beautiful.

~

~

~

“Can I come in now?”

 _“No!”_ Arthur’s voice rings out from the tile of their hotel bathroom.

Eames sighs and rolls onto his side. He grabs a pillow and stuffs it under his head, scratching idly at his bare chest.

“But I love watching you do your makeup, darling, you get this charming little moue of concentration on your lips, it’s absolutely precious.”

 _“I’m almost done,”_ Arthur says, his voice even as Eames pouts from his exile on the bed. It’s something Eames hadn’t expected to like about these conventions—perching on the edge of the tub and watching Arthur get himself ready, primping and gluing and morphing himself into something Other, his posture excellent and his smile tight and proud. Arthur wears his sins so well.

“I’m going to start humping this pillow if you don’t pay attention to me,” Eames yells, rolling onto his stomach after giving his balls a fond scratch. He’s gotten spoiled, truly. Rolling about in even the nicest hotel bed with no Arthur in it simply isn’t any fun.

_“If you’re trying to make me jealous, you’re failing.”_

Eames cradles his head in his arms and stares forlornly at the bathroom door. After exiling Eames to one of the beds, Arthur had taken the longest shower in recorded human history without even leaving Eames a snack. Arthur wants to surprise him with whatever new costume he’s wearing to tonight’s party, the one Ariadne had gleefully called Geek Prom, which will certainly be something new. Teenaged Eames had been too busy pursuing his full-time extracurricular activities of starting fights and sucking cock to attend any of his school dances.

“S’downright cruel, Arthur, denying me the sight of you wriggling into one of your costumes.” As much as Eames likes surprises, he likes watching Arthur stuff himself into skin-tight spandex even more.

 _“Don’t worry,”_ Arthur calls over the sound of the tap running. _“You get to take me out of it later.”_

Eames’s lips are pursed around something pithy when Arthur steps out of the bathroom. Eames’s pillow hits the floor as he pushes himself upright, his mouth hanging shamelessly open.

“Arthur,” he sighs, “you look…”

“Like you?”

Arthur smiles and turns on his heel. It’s as though Arthur has taken Eames’s reclaimed-skinhead style and run it through the grist mill of his own comic book fetishism. Glossy Dr. Martens are laced up past his ankles, with the cobalt-blue of his laces breaking under the neatly-rolled cuffs of a pair of breathtakingly tight jeans. Arthur’s polo shirt could be painted on, stretching taut across his chest and hugging the lean muscle of his biceps. His collar is striped the same color as his bootlaces, and where Eames would expect to see the Fred Perry logo, there’s an embroidered bat wing shape that will forever signal “Arthur” to Eames even before it says “Nightwing.” Arthur’s domino mask is glued to his face, his eyes blacked out with kohl underneath. A pair of braces hang about his hips, patterned in neat rows with the Nightwing emblem.

“Do you like it?”

“Do I _like_ it?” Eames surges to his feet and doesn’t stop until he’s got Arthur backed up against the wall. He kisses Arthur, licking the Colgate taste out of his mouth as he grabs at Arthur’s arse.

“I’m going to bolt the door and fuck you until we both pass out.”

“Later,” Arthur says, kissing him back. “These jeans are so tight I’ll need help getting them off.”

“I am at your service, darling,” Eames promises, kissing up the side of Arthur’s neck.

“Good,” Arthur says, smiling and pecking Eames on the cheek before he ducks out from under him. “And I’m glad you like it. I made you one, too.”

While Eames had lasted approximately 27 minutes inside their hotel room before half his belongings had found their way to the floor, the dresser, the night table, and any other flat and vaguely-available surface, Arthur’s suitcase remains neatly packed where it’s perched on the luggage stand. Arthur darts over to it and pulls out a perfectly-folded stack of denim and black cotton wrapped with a set of braces.

“Hope it fits,” Arthur says, shrugging one shoulder as he hands the stack to Eames.

“I should change in the bathroom,” Eames teases. “Just to teach you a lesson.”

Instead, he shoves his pants down and tosses his new outfit on the bed. It’s a perfect complement to Arthur’s—the same jeans and polo, a sleek black mask, and braces printed with a yellow logo. Eames grins.

“I get to be Batman?”

He shimmies into the jeans, which fit like Arthur 3-D printed them for Eames’s body. The polo’s just as tight, with the Batman logo settling above what will surely be a spectacular view of his nipples if a cold breeze finds him. (It’s not Eames’s fault he has fantastic tits.) Eames stretches the braces in his hands and beckons Arthur over. “Does this make you my ward?”

“Something like that,” Arthur says, opening the clips with elegant fingers. He fastens them to Eames’s waistband before pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Sit down,” he orders. Eames is contractually obligated to arch an eyebrow at Arthur’s tone, but he willingly sits at the edge of the bed as Arthur digs around in his suitcase. He grabs a small bundle and digs Eames’s boots out from their careless pile by the door.

Arthur on his knees is a sight that still hasn’t gotten old. He settles at Eames’s bare feet with his knees folded underneath him. He slips a pair of socks—Batman-patterned, naturally—onto Eames’s feet, followed by his boots. He slides Eames’s habitual red laces out of the eyelets. There’s a pack of new ones on the floor, in the same bright yellow as his braces. Arthur has an eye for detail.

“These are filthy,” Arthur _tsks_ at Eames’s boots, shaking his head.

“They’re boots, that’s their job.” Eames nudges his toe against Arthur’s knee.

“Thought that was your job,” Arthur quips, face placid as he unfolds the last of his supplies. Eames shouldn’t be surprised that Arthur travels with an elegant, miniature shoe-shine kit, but it still delights him as Arthur urges one of Eames’s boots onto his lap and grabs a small rag.

Arthur’s full attention is a laser-focused thing. He dips his rag into the little tin of soap and starts in on the toe of Eames’s boot. Warmth blooms in Eames’s chest, radiating out as Arthur bends his head and cleans the grime from Eames’s boots. Arthur in his clever little outfit, Arthur with his long, deft fingers working over the seams of Eames’s boots, Arthur with his beautiful face and his lip bitten between his teeth in concentration. 

Arthur’s soft competence melts him. Arthur, who gives himself so bravely, who knows nothing about the long tradition of bootblacking going back through generations of men who love like Eames, and somehow wraps himself around Eames’s boots like he was born to it. Arthur takes such care to craft his beloved costumes, and he pays Eames tribute in the same meticulous, masterful way he crafts all the things he loves. A knot in Eames’s stomach unfurls, shaky and fitful as he curls his hand over the edge of the mattress.

Arthur diligently cleans around each eyelet, around every crease and crack worn into the leather from Eames’s misadventures. Arthur handles him gently, holding Eames’s ankle to move the other foot into his lap, spending just as much care and attention as he polishes Eames’s boots to a high gleam. He threads the new laces in, double-wrapping them around the top to match his own.

“Arthur,” Eames murmurs, heart tripping in his chest. Arthur looks up at him, his eyes soft behind his mask. He keeps his eyes on Eames as he bends over, breaking contact finally as he closes his eyes and presses a soft kiss to the side of Eames’s boot.

Eames’s heart could break just to look at him. He knows, then, that he’ll never love anyone the way he loves Arthur. It’s terrifying and thrilling and more than Eames can bear to watch him kiss the boots he’s just blacked to perfection. He grabs Arthur by the chin and hauls him up until he’s on his knees in between Eames’s spread legs. Eames kisses him, hard and needy, swallowing Arthur’s noise of surprise. Arthur’s cheeks are warm in his palms, and the soft material of his mask tickles at Eames’s fingertips.

Arthur pulls back, his cheeks flaring pink and a kissed-soft smile on his lips. “You need your mask.”

Eames’s head is still swimming as Arthur crawls up beside him on the bed. He’s watched Arthur do this so many times, but he’s never appreciated the nerves of steel Arthur clearly possesses not to flinch at the heavy stick of black eyeliner. Arthur teases him, contorting Eames’s face to hold him still as he blacks out his eyes. The spirit gum Arthur uses to glue the mask on stinks to high heaven, but even the fumes can’t dampen Eames’s mood. Arthur is so skillful, so careful as he presses the domino to Eames’s face.

“You look perfect,” Arthur says, combing through Eames’s hair with his fingers. “Come look.”

Arthur’s up and tugging him into the bathroom. Eames can’t help his huge grin as Arthur slides under his arm and preens in the mirror. They look fucking _amazing_ , like something from one of Arthur’s fan-artists in the alleyway or whatever-it’s-called. 

“Aren’t we fetching,” Eames drawls, admiring every inch of Arthur before he spares a glance for himself. The mask is becoming on him, in the most unwholesome way. Eames grins, dangerous.

“I have one more surprise,” Arthur says, kissing Eames on the cheek before he zips out of the bathroom. Arthur’s a hummingbird when he’s like this, darting around with martial exhilaration. He reappears, just to slide his hand into Eames’s back pocket.

“Cheeky,” Eames teases, arching back into Arthur’s hand. Arthur leaves his left pocket full of something soft and swats at Eames’s arse. 

“You’ll pay for that,” Eames says fondly. Arthur hums and pulls him in for a kiss. His hands settle at Eames’s waist and spin him around so Eames’s back is to the mirror.

“What do you think?” Arthur says, turning Eames’s head to check out his rear view in the mirror. 

Settled neatly into Eames’s back left pocket is a red handkerchief, folding to point up in a perfect pyramid. To Eames’s impressed scrutiny, the usual paisley pattern has been replaced with Batman logos and the old-school _Bamf!_ And _Pow!_ action bubbles. Arthur’s attention to detail knows no bounds, and Eames is about to compliment him when Arthur turns. There’s a matching square peeking out of Arthur’s right pocket.

“Arthur,” Eames warns, reaching down to press his hand firmly over Arthur’s pocket. Eames’s pulse spikes as he stares at the swathe of red.

“I know what it means,” Arthur says, turning from the mirror as Eames draws him closer. He kneads his hand over Arthur’s arse, pressing each finger into Arthur’s firm flesh.

“This isn’t just for show?” Eames says softly, keeping his voice level. Arthur is a dream. Arthur is something crafted from Eames’s fevered imagination and wrought into rubber and muscle. Arthur is something Eames prays he never wakes up from.

“I want to do it—after the party,” Arthur adds, as Eames fails to staunch the rumble in his chest.

“You know that’s not good enough, pet,” Eames says, leveraging Arthur closer until he can rake his cock against Arthur’s. Eames is half-fucking-hard from a square of goddamned fabric and Arthur’s earnest proposal. “Tell me what you want, Arthur.”

“I want to take you downstairs and show you off to all my friends. I want to dance with you until you can’t stand it anymore. Then I want you to drag me back to this room and fuck me. With your fingers, and your tongue, and your cock.” Arthur’s lips brush against Eames’s ear as he reaches down to lay his palm over Eames’s back left pocket. “And your fist, Mr. Eames.”

Arthur squirms out of his grasp before Eames can grab him and never let go. Eames stares after him, blinking furiously until he’s convinced he’s awake.

Arthur hands Eames his phone and the key-card to their room when he stumbles out after Arthur. He fusses over Eames’s hair and adjusts his braces, and it’s only when Arthur kisses him that Eames regains his power of speech.

“What planet did you come from?”

“Illinois,” Arthur says equitably, smiling at Eames as he slips their convention badges on. 

~

The party’s at a club a few blocks from their hotel. It’s already packed when they arrive, but Arthur finds his friends by the bar and immediately orders drinks. Annie and Ariadne shriek appropriately at their outfits, although Eames feels positively underdressed next to their capes and catsuits. How Annie can stand upright, let alone dance in those heels remains a mystery.

As much as Eames teases him about being a stick in the mud, Arthur can fucking _dance_. He drags Eames onto the floor and grinds against him for an array of pop songs, before Ariadne cuts in and steals Arthur for herself. Eames doesn’t begrudge her; they have routines to half the songs. 

These things really aren’t so different from leather parties. There are obvious cliques and factions, the popular folk and their hangers-on, the people everyone likes and the people everyone loves to hate. Eames has spent many nights dancing in rooms full of people in masks and fantastical, skimpy costumes. He doesn’t even need Annie’s running gossip commentary to know that the romantic intrigue in the crowd could populate an entire soap opera. And like so many parties Eames has attended in recent memory, he spends most of it staring at Arthur’s arse and wondering when he can drag him back to bed.

“Thank you for watching my woman.” Ariadne slings one tiny arm around Eames’s waist and gives him a kiss on the cheek as Arthur stumbles in behind her. They’re both pinked and sweaty from dancing, a look that only adds to Ariadne’s wayward-Disney-animal charm but leaves Arthur looking sinful. The music dips and Ariadne pulls Annie to the dance floor, leaving Eames with a warm, thrumming Arthur in his arms.

“We have to dance to this song,” Arthur says, laughing as a synth beat starts to kick in. “ _It doesn’t hurt me_ ,” he hums along, pulling Eames into the crowd by his belt loops. Eames smiles. Who doesn’t love Kate Bush?

Arthur doesn’t “dance” so much as rhythmically-make-out-with-him, not that Eames is complaining. Arthur’s body against him is good at _any_ tempo. 

“Are you having fun?” Arthur shouts over the music, his arms wound tight around Eames’s neck.

“With you, darling, always,” Eames says, swaying them together. Their masks threaten to stick together when Eames kisses him.

“Careful,” Arthur warns, pressing Eames’s mask back in place and then checking his own.

“I will be _so very_ careful with you, Arthur,” Eames growls, reaching around and sliding his hand into Arthur’s back right pocket. His knuckles drag against Arthur’s handkerchief as he cups Arthur’s arse. Eames has danced enough, and if the hitch of Arthur’s hips against him is any sign, so has Arthur.

“Take me upstairs,” Arthur sighs against his ear.

Eames leaves in a haze, trailing Arthur behind him clutching at Eames’s braces. He can’t stop kissing Arthur, not on their way back to the hotel, not in the elevator, not in the hallway leading to their room. They barely make it inside.

Arthur pushes him against the door and fumbles blindly for the light switch, huffing in frustration until he’s cast into halogen softness. They wrestle with each other’s shirts, skinning them off until they’re chest to chest, stumbling toward the bed. Eames runs his fingers up the whippet-curves of Arthur’s back, holds him around the waist just to relish the breadth of his hands over Arthur’s lithe body. His mask sticks to Arthur’s again as they kiss, and Eames reaches up to peel it off before Arthur grabs his wrist.

“Can we keep them on?” Arthur, who’d calmly asked for Eames’s entire fist inside him, looks almost bashful. The black around his eyes makes them look even inkier than usual. Eames grins and presses his thumb over the edge of Arthur’s mask, tacking it back to his temple.

“Of course, little bird.” Eames smiles indulgently as Arthur turns to kiss his hand, and marvels at the delightful pathos that marches under Arthur’s skin. 

Arthur manages to nip at Eames’s neck and untie his bootlaces at the same time, and he does need Eames’s help to get his jeans off. Eames peels him free and tosses the stiff denim aside before reaching for his own flies. He’s so hard it’s making his chest tight. He groans as he springs free, stroking himself as Athur climbs onto the bed. He looks adorable in his Nightwing socks, a mirror to Eames’s own Batman-patterned athletic socks, with a blue stripe up the side and the Nightwing logo stretched across the front. Arthur slides his thumb into the top of one before Eames clears his throat.

“Keep them on.”

Arthur narrows his eyes at Eames before rolling off the edge of the bed and coming back. With his boots. Eames swallows, tight all over as Arthur makes that cute, smug face and laces his boots back on.

“Better?” Arthur says, leaning back on his elbows and spreading his legs to bracket the foot of the bed with his boots digging shamelessly into the sheets and his socks cutting just below his bony, darling knees. Eames nods, staring down at Arthur as he strokes his cock and licks his lips. Arthur’s chest rises with his breath, as strong and delicate as the rest of him. Eames could paint him like this, with his mask accentuating the angle of his head tilted to one side as he stares up at Eames, his cock nestled against the curve of his leg, his boots splayed out like all of Eames’s teenage fantasies sprung to life. Better Eames is grown, though, so he can comfortably linger in the cognitive dissonance of treating Arthur tenderly for the rest of his natural life and absolutely ruining him all at once.

He grabs Arthur behind one knee and flips him over onto his stomach. Arthur doesn’t need any urging to spread his legs, good boy that he is, but he still yelps with happy surprise when Eames bites meanly at the curve of his arse. He drags his teeth down Arthur’s skin, noses against the crease of his arse, and settles his shoulders in between Arthur’s spread thighs. 

Eames has heard every possible exhortation about his mouth, but the way Arthur turns feral when Eames licks into him is better than any praise. Eames slides his arms under and over Arthur’s hips, wraps him tight to hold him in place as he eats Arthur out slowly and thoroughly. Eames isn’t the biggest guy, but he’s got ploughman’s hands and forearms to match. The only way he’s getting five fingers in Arthur is with patience and more patience. And lots of lube. Eames gives Arthur a swat on the arse before reaching toward the nightstand, knowing there’ll be some in the drawer. 

Next to their usual bottle is a crisp white tub with a yellow logo of a muscular arm holding a butter churn. Eames barks with delight.

“Arthur,” Eames gushes, cradling it to his chest. _“You got Boy Butter?”_ When Arthur had found time to sneak this into the drawer Eames can’t imagine. It definitely wasn’t there when he fucked Arthur last night.

“I do my research,” Arthur shrugs, rising up onto one elbow. 

“Yes, you do,” Eames agrees, “and your diligence deserves every reward.”

He tears the seal on the tub open with his teeth. Arthur grunts when Eames hauls him back by his hips, the pointed corner of his mask peeking out as Arthur splays his arms out and turns his face against the sheets. Eames slicks his cock and thumbs some of the thick, creamy lube into Arthur’s hole. Eames’s jeans are barely down past his arse, but he can’t be fucked to take his boots off or do anything that isn’t fucking Arthur. 

“You don’t come until you’ve got my fist inside you, you understand?” Eames says, thumbing the head of his cock against Arthur’s hole. Eames is selfish to a fault and mean to boot, but it’s really for Arthur’s own good to hold him off. If Arthur comes too early he’ll never loosen up enough, and if he can manage to hold off, he’ll come so hard he’ll be speaking in tongues.

“I understand, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says, canting his hips like some common slag, so different from the proud, dashing hero who leaves a trail of men and women swooning in his wake. Eames honestly couldn’t pick which Arthur he likes best.

Then he’s inside Arthur and everything makes sense. Arthur hot and tight around him settles everything rattling around inside Eames. This is all he needs to do, to take care of Arthur and fuck him open. His own orgasm simmers on the back burner as he sinks his cock deep and steady into Arthur, drunk on him already. Time slows as they move together, Arthur giving it back as good as he gets, egging Eames on with little grunts and moans and sighs and the easy give of his back. 

“Ready for more?” Eames looks down and traces the pad of his thumb where they’re joined together—an offer, a threat. Arthur groans his _Yes_ into the sheets and Eames steels himself not to come the second he slides his thumb in next to his cock. There’s no easy way to do this, no gentle approach Eames can take. He forces one fat knuckle past Arthur’s resistance, then does it again with his other thumb until he can see the raw stretch of Arthur around him. Arthur makes noises that should be enshrined somewhere sacred, his hands clenched in the sheets and his booted toes digging furiously into the mattress. Everything’s shining with lube and the sweat-soaked glow of Arthur’s skin, beautiful. 

“That’s it,” Eames urges, holding Arthur still as he buries himself deep. His fingers dig into the meat of Arthur’s arse, tugging him open as he circles his hips. “Open up for me, love.”

And Arthur does, slowly, shaking and gasping with each finger Eames slips in and out of him, trading his thumbs for the heavy pull of his right index, middle, and ring fingers against Arthur’s rim. Eames is barely more collected than Arthur. His breath comes in tight huffs, his toes curling in his boots every time his cock hits the back-drag of his own fingers. He’ll say one thing for wearing a mask, at least it diverts the sweat out of his eyes. 

“Come on come on come on,” Arthur keeps chanting, game even when Eames sneaks his pinky finger in. Arthur just slams a fist against the pillows and backs into it, brave and stubborn and reckless. 

“Good boy,” Eames pants, his voice breathless as his own control slips away and his hips snap hard. “I am going to get you–” he says, his jaw clenched and his nose flaring at the greased smack of their bodies together, “so wet.”

“Fuck—” Arthur’s back ripples as he pushes himself onto his elbows and turns to look over one shoulder at Eames. “Do it, do it, come inside me.”

Eames curls over Arthur’s back, dragging his face against sweaty skin and bearing his weight on one shaking arm. He can feel himself soaking Arthur, cock twitching against his own fingers as he comes inside Arthur’s overstretched hole. Arthur moans against him, needy and greedy and pliant, twitching at the smallest brush of Eames’s lips against his ear. He lets out a long, reedy sigh as Eames collapses on top of him.

“We can stop, if you need to,” Eames says, slipping his errant fingers free as his hips twitch out the final push of his orgasm. Arthur’s still so tight around him.

“Fuck _that_ ,” Arthur retorts, his offended tone softened where his face is mushed against the sheets. Arthur has all the elegance of a landed sea-mammal as he shimmies out from under Eames and rolls onto his back, and just like a selkie with some hidden skin tucked off-shore, Eames is enchanted by the sight of him. Arthur grabs himself behind the knees and pulls, and Eames makes a noise that would shame a walrus. 

“I need you inside me.” Arthur’s all bravado, with his boots up in the air and Eames’s heart beating between his teeth. Arthur’s hole is puffed and red and slick with come, as ruined as the rest of him with his hair sweat-stuck to his forehead and the black of his eyes streaking out from the side of his mask. 

“You are so fucking beautiful,” Eames says, finding his legs wobbly as he carelessly tucks himself back in and pats the sheets in search of the lube. Arthur finds it first and chucks it at him, smiling gleefully as he slides his hand back behind his knee. Eames settles himself down, perching on his folded knees as he scoops two fingers through the lube and paints it around Arthur’s throbbing entrance. Arthur opens easily for his fingers, well-fucked as he is. Eames tries not to puff his chest out too much, but it’s hard not to preen when a fat rope of his own come seeps out past his greased knuckles. He works Arthur up to four fingers in no time, stretching him open and groaning at the glimpses of Arthur’s fucked-out rim, that pretty pink that only Eames gets to see. 

He sinks the breadth of his knuckles into Arthur and strokes his free thumb over Arthur’s taint, the only chubby part of his entire body. Eames hoards that softness, pressing against it. 

“Breathe with me,” Eames orders, forcing calm into his voice for Arthur’s sake, because this isn’t about Eames, and the fucked-up thrash of his heart against his ribs, the swoop of his stomach and the rush of blood in his ears as Arthur looks up at him, calm and trusting and so precious Eames could cradle him in his palm forever. Their breath falls into sync, in and out, and Arthur parts like a spring stream when Eames tucks his thumb into his palm and eases inside him.

 _“Eames,”_ Arthur whispers, shocked eyes wide and glued to Eames’s face as he opens for the full span of Eames’s hand. Eames has seen his knuckles sink past a lot of boys, but he’s never had any one of them look at him like Arthur does. Arthur is so fiercely, feverishly _awake_ , his eyes gleaming and his hands trembling as he holds himself open for Eames. He doesn’t disappear inside himself like so many others have. Eames’s hand sinks to the wrist and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Arthur’s face if he wanted to.

 _“You are so perfect,”_ Eames murmurs, the warmth in his voice no match for the fever-burn of Arthur on the inside. Eames moves, gently, just testing the waters as Arthur nods wordlessly at him. There’s nothing on earth that feels like this, the secret, soft throb of Arthur around him, the slick grip like he could pull Eames deep enough to cup his heart. 

“I can take it,” Arthur says, licking his lips and nodding encouragement. He stares down between them, so Eames does the same, groaning at the plucked-pink of Arthur’s body where they’re joined. Eames draws back, stretching Arthur to the breadth until Arthur stuffs his own fist in his mouth to stifle the noise he makes. Eames builds him up inch by inch, fucking Arthur open until his hand glides in and out. It’s not just about depth. It’s about surrender, Arthur giving himself over completely. Eames uses his free hand to hold up Arthur’s leg, letting the sole of his boot rest on Eames’s shoulder. 

_“Fucking perfect,”_ Eames repeats, barely aware of it as he fucks Arthur hard enough to hear it. Arthur’s past words, now, his mouth moving over empty syllables as he babbles. Arthur’s cock leaks against his stomach, flushed red and smearing wet all over his skin. “Touch yourself,” Eames orders, gleaming with pride at the restraint Arthur possesses. Arthur’s hand shakes as he closes it over his cock.

“Good boy— take it—” Eames says, gruff, his own cock stirring back to interest as Arthur starts to stroke himself in earnest. Arthur matches his pace to Eames’s thrusts, giving Eames control even when he has himself in hand. His mask obscures the little furrow Arthur gets between his eyebrows, but Eames knows all his tells, from the peek of his tongue over his teeth to the way he juts his chin out, the point of his toes that even his boots can’t obscure, the tension that ripples over his stomach. Arthur’s close. Eames sinks his hand to the wrist and holds it, twisting. He can feel Arthur’s heartbeat.

_“God, Arthur, I love you.”_

Arthur’s face whips from strained effort to slack-jawed awe, his eyes going wide before they slide out of focus and he seizes up around Eames’s hand. Arthur ripples and shudders around him, clutching at Eames as he shoots all over his stomach. One brave little stripe even makes it to Arthur’s chin. Eames goes in to claim it as his own and finds Arthur laughing, dazed as he stares up at Eames.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to say that while your wrist bones are inside me.”

“Say?” Eames repeats, before he closes his eyes. _Fuck_. “Said that bit out loud, did I?”

“Yeah.” Arthur nods, giddy. “Eames, I—”

“Don’t.” Eames shakes his head. “You don’t have to say it, Arthur. I don’t need you to. It’s like you have to, now, and I can’t—” Eames sighs, cutting off the hole he’s digging himself into. “I’m still inside you, love. One thing at a time, yeah?” Eames smiles until Arthur has no choice but to crack and smile back at him. 

Arthur’s the prettiest kind of ruined when Eames pulls out. The sheets are significantly less pretty, and Eames sacrifices a pillowcase to wipe his hand before he collapses next to Arthur. Arthur plants himself on Eames’s chest and traces over the outline of Eames’s mask.

“I honestly don’t know if you’re more handsome with or without the mask,” Arthur muses, humming as he peels the rubber off Eames’s face. Not much of it is stuck to his skin anymore, but the damned thing held on remarkably well. Arthur’s so good at everything he does. Unlike Eames, who has brilliantly waited until he’s wrist-deep in Arthur’s arse to finally say _I love you_. He’s almost done it so many times, times that would have been romantic or at least appropriate. He should have done it with the boot thing. Or the wrestling thing. Or the million other times he’s looked at Arthur and felt the earth open up beneath him. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Eames says, smiling magnanimously down at Arthur as he takes his own mask off. The black makeup around his eyes has streaked everywhere, caked into the gentle creases around Arthur’s eyes and striping down his cheeks.

“Do I look like a particularly sex-addled raccoon, too?” Eames asks, laughing at Arthur’s mock-offense. 

“Yes,” Arthur says tartly, swiping his thumb over Eames’s cheek and coming away with a black swathe. 

“Excellent, we’re a matched pair,” Eames says decisively. He tucks Arthur against his neck and noses into his hair. “Are you feeling all right?” 

“I’m sure I’ll be a little sore, but I’m good.” Arthur nuzzles against him, no doubt streaking makeup across Eames’s skin and the poor, defiled sheets.

“I liked the boots,” Eames says. Arthur looks down where he’s still wearing them and points his toes. God, he’s adorable.

“I thought you would.” Arthur slinks onto his side and pushes up onto his elbow. “I’ll wear them next time if you want me to.”

“Oh, good, there’s a next time,” Eames says, letting out a great sigh of relief. Arthur frowns.

“Of course there’s— _Christ_ ,” Arthur rolls his eyes, “I loved that, Eames. And I love—”

 _“Arthur.”_ Eames hates the pleading tone in his voice.

“I don’t _have_ to say anything, Eames. I don’t do anything I don’t _want_ to do, for fuck’s sake.” He sighs, long and frustrated through his nose. He lays his hand on Eames’s chest, right over the Union Jack tattoo he’d gotten after leaving England. Arthur traces over the stripes, trailing down to do the same to Eames’s nipples, before dragging the flat of his palm down Eames’s stomach. Eames’s cock flags back to interest, immune to the anxiety fluttering in Eames’s ribcage. 

“But if you’re going to be an asshole about it, fine. I’ll just show you.” Arthur slides his hand into the open waistband of Eames’s jeans, where he hadn’t bothered to do up the button again. Eames arches into his touch, unable to resist as Arthur carefully undoes his zipper. His cock throbs as Arthur closes his hand around it, and he can’t keep his eyes off Arthur as he slides down Eames’s side. 

Arthur closes his lips around Eames’s cock and it’s Eames, damn it, who moans out _I love you, Arthur_ again and again before it’s all over.

~

Arthur is brilliant for a million different reasons, but tonight the one Eames is most grateful for is his forethought to get a room with two beds.

“They should burn those sheets,” Arthur says, turning to little-spoon against Eames and pull the duvet up under his chin, safe in their warm, wet-spot-free bed.

“We’ll leave a nice tip,” Eames offers, wondering if the boot marks or the grease stains will give their poor housekeeper longer pause.

“Did you tip the room service guy?” Arthur asks, looking over at the empty trays at the foot of their bed. Arthur had eaten his chicken tenders with frightening enthusiasm.

“Of course, darling.”

“I need water.” Arthur sighs and throws the comforter off himself before Eames shoves it back.

“I’ve got it,” he says, up and grabbing a water bottle from their mini-fridge before Arthur can fully finish rolling his eyes.

“I can walk, Eames,” Arthur glares as he accepts the drink.

“If you’d just put your entire fist up my arse, I’d expect to be waited on hand and foot as well,” Eames says.

“Have you ever?” Arthur asks, taking a sip of his water and humming as Eames settles back against him.

“A few times.” Eames smiles at a very old memory of one of his first boyfriends and a can of vegetable shortening. “A very long time ago.”

“Did you like it?”

“It was interesting,” Eames admits. “I certainly like doing it more. But if you’re dying to try it, pet, I’m sure we can make it work.”

“I’m good,” Arthur says, shaking his head. “Although I think I’d be a good top in, like, a parallel universe.”

“God, but I’d be an obnoxious bottom,” Eames snorts against Arthur’s shoulder. “I speak from experience. Very needy.” Eames feigns shock at Arthur’s knowing hum and hugs him closer. “Do you believe that? That there’s parallel universes and all that?”

“Yeah,” Arthur says. “There’s always a multiverse, any comic nerd knows that. There’s a bizarro universe where I’m the big, mean dom and you’re my sweet, doting little sub.”

“Sweet and doting?” Eames repeats, arching an eyebrow.

Arthur soldiers on, refusing the bait. “Maybe we’re both cats in another one, and you spend all day chasing my tail.”

“What if I’m a dog and I just spend my days blissfully humping your leg?” Eames says, kissing Arthur behind the ear and doing his best puppy-pant until Arthur smacks him. “Always thought I’d make a good viking. Maybe I’m some great warrior who takes you as my war-bride.”

“Please,” Arthur says, “I’d be the viking. You’re the fat monk I take captive when I sack your little monastery.” Arthur turns and presses a kiss to Eames’s waiting lips. “I’d ravish you.”

 _“Ravish!”_ Eames whispers, scandalized. 

Arthur smiles. “But I know we’d always wind up together.”

“Even if we’re cat-people? Or sex raccoons?”

“Especially if we’re sex raccoons. I think we’re also in space in that one,” Arthur adds, shrugging like this is self-evident. “But yeah, always.”

“What makes you so certain?” Eames says, a heart-worn thread unspooling in his chest. He closes his eyes and presses his lips to the tender crest of Arthur’s spine.

“Because I love you, Eames. I’d love you anywhere.”

Arthur yawns and tugs Eames’s arm tighter across his chest, lacing their fingers together and pressing them over his heart. Eames shuts his eyes tight and crushes Arthur against him.

Arthur sighs, voice dropping off as he squeezes Eames’s hand. “Go to sleep, Mr. Eames.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Eames roleplay as Blake/Bane, with some fake dub-con as part of it. It's clearly pre-negotiated and consenting, but if that type of language during roleplay is triggering, please proceed with caution.
> 
> Also, this contains the schmoopiest and most romantic fisting scene I've ever written, gold-star sticker for me.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames has a key to Arthur’s apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How did we get here so quickly? Thank you from the bottom of my heart to everyone who has read this story, who has cheered me on while writing, who has made my entire day with a lovely comment or a kudo. This part of the story is done, but there are many more to tell. Feel free to prompt me something on [tumblr](https://saltandbyrne.tumblr.com/) and I'll try my best to write some one-shots.

Eames has a key to Arthur’s apartment.

They’d exchanged keys a few months ago, when Eames had flown home for his biennial “Yes Mum I’m still alive and no I haven’t found my future husband yet” trip, which this year had coincided with Yusuf’s “Yes Baba I’m still alive and no I haven’t found my beloved wife yet” trip, leaving Eames’s plants unwatered and Yusuf’s fish unfed. Arthur had volunteered, and he’d presented Eames with a set of keys when Eames had given him his. Where Eames’s spare keys are held together with a bent safety pin, Arthur had slipped him a neat set dangling from a sleek Batman keychain. “In case of emergency,” he’d said.

This isn’t quite an emergency, so Eames knocks on the door. And knocks again, and a third time for good measure, until Arthur opens the door like he means to do violence to the hinges. He could put a wet cat to shame, if cats got livid circles under their eyes and a gaunt look about them when they’ve been working too hard at their cat-jobs.

This is peak season for Arthur’s human-job, a job Eames is coming to strongly dislike. He hasn’t seen Arthur in five days, which is excessive and uncalled for. Arthur’s mad focus is part of his charm, but it’s less intoxicating when it’s applied to spreadsheets and eldritch assortments of American tax documents instead of Eames’s person.

“Eames, I don’t have time for sex.” Arthur still lets him in. 

“Good to see you too, pet.” Eames breezes past Arthur, taking off his boots and settling his jacket over one of Arthur’s bar chairs. Arthur’s apartment is small, dark, and neat, just like Arthur. Eames places his dented thermos on Arthur’s otherwise-bare kitchen island.

“You’re taking a twenty-minute break. I assume you can spare that much time?”

Arthur glances at the cobalt glow of his computer. “Eames, I’m happy to see you, I really am, but I have a deadline to make or I’m going to lose a huge client.”

“You’ll make your deadline,” Eames says, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt, a worn Black Watch tartan he knows Arthur likes. Arthur watches him, eyes narrowing.

“Eames, I haven’t come in almost a week, if we start fooling around—”

“You’ll make your deadline,” Eames says again, rolling his sleeves up as he looks Arthur in the eye. How anyone can be that handsome and that exhausted all at once is one of Arthur’s myriad mysteries. “Get your phone.”

Eames’s tone doesn’t brook any argument. Arthur knows he can stop it, he always can, but his eyes widen and  _ there _ , that subtle change in his posture, that’s it. Some of the tension eases out of his face as he nods and goes to his desk.

Only Arthur would race a break-neck pace toward a deadline in wool trousers and a dress shirt in his own home. His feet are bare, a sight that still does strange things to Eames. Arthur possesses heretofore unknown depths of sexual attraction. Eames watches as he pads back from his desk, dutifully holding his phone in his palm.

“Good boy,” Eames says, because Arthur is so good, and because the instant way Arthur’s eyes fall to half-mast drives Eames mad. It’s theft, to steal a kiss from Arthur on borrowed time, but Eames can’t resist dipping his fingers into the cookie jar and sweeping Arthur into a kiss. He presses Arthur close, counts down the seconds as he savors the compact press of Arthur’s body against him, the coffee-tinge lurking under Arthur’s breath mints. Poor thing’s running on fumes.

“Eames,” Arthur sighs, running his clever fingers through Eames’s hair, stroking over the soft buzz at Eames’s nape that Arthur holds so dear. Likes the texture, he always says. God, Eames has missed him, missed the way Arthur nips at his lip and works one leg between his own. Eames can’t claim Arthur’s five-day stint of not getting off, but he’s half-hard with what is—at most—two minutes of kissing.

Having a wank is a miserable thing compared to the technicolor wonder that is Arthur, who will do things most porn stars refuse and do them with such panache it makes Eames lament that he is not, in fact, a porn star. But then Eames would have to share him, which simply wouldn’t do. It’s bad enough he has to share Arthur with heinous adult responsibilities like employment.

“Set your timer for twenty minutes,” Eames says, steeling himself as he pulls away from Arthur. He could fuck Arthur for the next twenty hours, easily, but that will have to wait until after Arthur’s busy season ends. Maybe he’ll take Arthur away for a whole week, somewhere without phones or other people. 

Arthur clears his throat and starts his time, showing it to Eames. Arthur’s too tired to have much fight in him, not tonight. Eames props the phone on Arthur’s coffee table, on top of a neat pile of books stacked in ascending size order. “Wonder Woman: Bondage and Feminism in the Marston/Peter Comics” sits on top. Eames had given him that book. He smiles and tilts Arthur’s phone so he can see the numbers.

“When’s the last time you slept, Arthur?” Eames keeps his voice soft and even as he slips behind Arthur. He brackets his hands across Arthur’s waist, slimmer than ever when Arthur works himself like this.

“I took a nap. Yesterday,” Arthur admits, staring down at the floor. 

Eames presses a kiss to the exquisite musculature of Arthur’s neck. “And what’s the last thing you ate?”

“Does coffee count?”

“Arthur, who do you belong to?” Eames digs his hands into Arthur’s sides, pressing until Arthur sighs.

“You—” Arthur says, his voice startling as Eames reaches around to tug at Arthur’s flies.

“Yes, you do.” He slides open the waistband hook-and-eye and slides Arthur’s zipper down. “Do I neglect my things, Arthur?”

“Never,” Arthur says tightly, the muscles in his stomach jumping as Eames reaches in to untuck Arthur’s shirt. He hooks his thumbs into the black elastic of Arthur’s boxer briefs.

“I think you need a reminder,” Eames says, pushing Arthur’s trousers down along with his pants. Arthur leans back against him, pliant already as Eames gets him bare to mid-thigh, with only the tails of his shirt covering him. 

Arthur is a delight to unwrap. Sensitive and suggestible, he’s the sort of sub Eames had only dreamt of. Subtle and focused and fiercely present, strong and flexible in mind and body, game for anything but still possessed of his own passions—Arthur can keep Eames entranced for days. It’s a shame to rush with Arthur, but needs-must when the clock is ticking. 

Eames sinks one hand into Arthur’s hair and jerks, eliciting a strangled sound from Arthur as he pulls them both down to the couch. Eames knows just how strong Arthur is, which makes it all the more satisfying when Arthur surrenders to Eames and lets himself splay sideways across Eames’s lap. Arthur’s hands reach over his head on instinct, and the curve in his back is equal parts choice and the natural perfection of Arthur’s body.

“It’s my job to take care of you, Arthur,” Eames says, inching Arthur’s shirttails up until there’s nothing but bare skin and the glory of Arthur’s arse. It’s a thing for song and verse, for psalms and librettos and cantos. Eames runs his fingers over the daunting curve of it and hums.

“Yes, I know, darling,” Eames says, his blood running hot as Arthur arches into his hand, touch-starved and eager for it. Arthur’s cock rasps against the front of Eames’s jeans, fattening up as Eames kneads at the firm muscle of his thigh. “Spread your legs.” 

The first slap lands against the crease of Arthur’s arse, at the tender junction of his buttock and his thigh. Eames firms his grip in Arthur’s hair, pushing him down as he adds another slap higher up. Arthur moans into the couch, his fingers kneading into the microfiber cushion as he writhes in Eames’s hold. Arthur’s not the only one getting hard.

Eames drags the blunt edge of his fingernails over the blooming flush on Arthur’s skin. A few more smacks and he’s blood-warm, spreading pink across pale skin. Arthur whimpers when Eames lands a blow on the delicate space between his thighs, but he keeps his legs spread when Eames does it again. 

Each slap of Eames’s hand leeches the tension out of Arthur’s body, an inverse ratio that flows out of him. Ideally, Arthur would be trussed, presented, his legs bound to Eames’s spanking bench, his hands caught in the leather restraints Eames had made just for Arthur’s slim wrists. He’d be drooling through a gag and blindfolded, eclipsed into his headspace while Eames worked him up from hand to paddle to whatever infernal thing Arthur had chosen for that evening. Arthur’s sense of adventure is surpassed only by his will. It aches at Eames, as his hand starts to sting. Arthur had called it a ‘shared dream’ once, and there are moments like this, when he’s rushing toward the finish line with real life flanking them, when Eames is resentful that they ever have to wake up.

“Beautiful boy,” Eames sighs, landing a series of blows that make Arthur shake. Eames releases his hold on Arthur’s hair, missing the hint of soft curls that he only sees when Arthur begins to neglect himself, although the blow is softened when he winds his arm around Arthur’s waist to hold him steady. “Can you come for me, love?”

Arthur’s plaintive response is affirmative, if pitiful. He grinds against Eames, hard and desperate, no doubt leaving a dark spot on Eames’s leg. Arthur’s a demonstrative one. 

“That’s it, let go,” Eames urges, swinging his arm back and smacking Arthur hard enough to make the sofa rock. He doesn’t stop until Arthur goes rigid against him, gasping and punching against the arm of the sofa. Warmth seeps into Eames’s lap. 

“Eames,” Arthur moans, twitching as Eames leans down to kiss along the back of his neck. There’s a hint of stubble on Arthur’s jaw, a rarity that makes Eames’s cock throb against the confines of his jeans. 

“You did perfect, darling.” Eames finds the sensitive spot behind Arthur’s ear and nuzzles at it, smiling as Arthur rolls to face him and wrap himself around Eames’s midsection. He pets through Arthur’s hair and glances at the timer. Eight minutes left. 

“Want to get you off,” Arthur mumbles, slithering down Eames’s lap and pawing at his crotch. 

“Not tonight, pet.” Eames wants to fuck Arthur’s face until he passes out, wants to take all night taking Arthur apart and sticking him back together with Eames as glue. There’s a limit to Eames’s self-control, though, and no good will come of Arthur with his glazed eyes and his loose, lax body working its magic on Eames. He kisses Arthur as he slides him to the corner of the couch. 

“Stay,” Eames says, a dog’s order that usually gets a mulish look from Arthur. Now, he just leans against the arm of the couch and watches with those soft, dark eyes as Eames fetches the thermos from the kitchen.

“What is that?” Arthur asks, suspicious as Eames pours out a steaming cup. He pulls Arthur back into his lap and hands it to him.

“Bone broth,” Eames says. “Made it myself.”

Arthur sniffs at it before taking a tentative sip. Eames knows it’s delicious, savory and salty with the fruit of his labor and long hours simmering on his stovetop. Arthur downs it in one long gulp and readily accepts a refill.

“It’s good,” Arthur says. He makes a soft slurping noise and closes his eyes. Watching Arthur come apart under his hands does things to Eames, but the simple act of watching Arthur eat what Eames has made for him cracks something open in Eames’s chest. He pulls Arthur close to him and nuzzles into his hair.

“It’s good for you. All the best stuff’s in the marrow, you know.” 

“I think I just jizzed my marrow all over you,” Arthur mumbles into his cup. He gets halfway through a sip and stops. “Oh God, your  _ pants _ ,” Arthur realises, reeling back and staring at Eames in horror.

“Oh, that,” Eames says, shrugging. “Maybe I’ll toss one off with them in my mouth later.”

Arthur’s eyes widen somewhere between disgust and fascination. “Will you send me a picture?”

“If you let yourself rest, perhaps.” Eames empties the thermos into Arthur’s mug and watches happily as Arthur drains it. He must have been starving. Eames’s eyes are closed when the timer goes off, trilling hatefully and pulling him out of his reverie. Arthur groans.

“I don’t want to go back to work.”

“That is a very mutual feeling, I assure you,” Eames says, stealing one last inhale of Arthur’s hair before he hauls them both to their feet. “But I keep my promises.”

Arthur tucks himself back in, efficient even in his lethargy. He should be naked, wrapped in the warmth of Eames’s bed and Eames’s body. The only dark circles on his body should be from Eames’s attention, the only wrinkles from Eames’s sheets. He should have a collar. Eames kisses him, stealing another minute to hold Arthur close.

“Are you all right? I can stay and keep myself busy while you work.” Eames is spoiled with his own large space, where it’s easy to leave Arthur to his own devices while Eames works on his projects, but he can occupy a corner of Arthur’s little flat if Arthur needs him. Eames always has a book on him.

“Tempting, but I don’t think I could keep myself out of your lap for more than ten minutes,” Arthur says. He presses his forehead to Eames’s. “Thank you. I needed that.”

“I love you, Arthur. I will always take care of you.” Eames flushes at the earnesty in his own voice. Arthur doesn’t need that shit when he’s busy with work. He clears his throat and grins. “Besides, it’s not as though I can ride the subways covered in my  _ own _ spunk, that’s just unseemly.”

“Please tell me you’re not taking the subway home like that,” Arthur says. “It’s late. Isn’t it? I don’t even know what fucking time it is.” He rubs at his eyes. “Jesus, I just want to pass out on your dick, is that terrible?”

“That is the  _ least _ terrible thing you’ve said all evening,” Eames says. His dick doesn’t think it’s a terrible idea, either. Eames shifts, resigning himself to another miserable evening with his own hand. 

He fixes his cuffs and gathers the thermos, smiling at the empty cylinder. Arthur’s a grown man who can care for himself, but at least Eames has done everything he can for him. He shrugs his jacket on and reaches for the zipper before he stops. Not quite everything.

“Yusuf gave me this, I almost forgot.” Eames extracts a brown dropper vial from the inside pocket of his jacket. Arthur holds it up to the light, rolling the liquid inside around. 

“Is it drugs?” Arthur’s tone is curious rather than judgmental. Eames suspects the level of caffeine running through Arthur’s veins could count as a controlled substance.

“He said it’s Siberian ginseng, so I suppose not really?” Eames shrugs. “Said it helped him when he was studying. Ten drops under the tongue when you’re feeling peaked.”

Arthur immediately unscrews the cap and brings the glass dropper under his tongue. Eames watches the long line of Arthur’s throat as he leans his head back, mournful that he can’t make better use of it.

“That tastes like Hell’s compost pile,” Arthur gripes, sticking his tongue out and grimacing. He smacks his lips and swallows, wrinkling his nose like some painfully cute cat video. Eames still kisses him goodbye.

“If you need me, call,” Eames says, running his cheek against Arthur’s precious stubble one last time. No doubt Arthur will be clean-shaven and pressed back to his usual finesse the next time Eames sees him. Hopefully he’ll pass out on Eames’s dick the next time he sees him.

“I will. Just a few more days,” Arthur sighs, planting his cheek against Eames’s shoulder. Eames is sticky-fingered by nature, and another minute of Arthur’s time slips into his pocket as they stand there, wrapped around one another, jealously quiet before the real world comes crashing in around them. Eames brings his hand to the back of Arthur’s neck, pressing gently. 

“And, Eames,” Arthur says. “I love you, too.” He leans up for a kiss, and even the bitter aftertaste of Yusuf’s ginseng can’t quell the thrill that runs over Eames. 

Eames smiles softly as Arthur walks him to the door. “Get some sleep, Arthur.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Eames.”

~

Eames’s flat feels enormous after the close quarters of Arthur’s place. Eames puts the kettle on and peels out of his jeans. The dried remnants of Arthur’s generous orgasm crackle as Eames slides them down his legs. It’s almost a shame he hadn’t sucked Arthur off.

It’s embarrassingly easy to get hard. Yes, Arthur’s cock in his mouth, thick and lovely as Arthur struggles against his restraints, the furious huffs he makes when Eames draws him to the edge and leaves him teetering, ties him off and makes him earn it. 

Eames knows how to pose for a selfie. He stretches his arm out, sure to capture his face as well as his cock as he pouts his lips to full effect and drags his tongue along the spunk-stiff denim of his jeans. It’s showy and lewd and vaguely disgusting, and it will make Arthur smile.

Eames hits send and strokes his cock.

He comes so fast the kettle still hasn’t gone off. Eames wipes it all off on his jeans, because  _ fuck it _ , in for a penny. He brews a cup of hojicha and leans against his counter, staring out the window and praying Arthur will sleep before the sun comes up. 

Despite the late hour, Eames drags out a box of scrap leather, bits that are too nice to throw away but too small for most of his projects. He sorts them into piles, by weight and size and quality, discarding anything that isn’t soft and lustrous. When he’s certain he has enough, he closes his eyes and pictures the precious slope of Arthur’s neck.

He tears off a sheet of paper and starts to sketch a collar.

~

Eames loves cooking for people. 

He blames it on a childhood spent at his mother’s apron strings. Food is his earliest memory of sensual pleasure—biscuits stolen hot off the tray, the steaming comfort of an afterschool pasty, the cup of hot chocolate pressed into his hand on Christmas Eve. That warm, comforting feeling should be shared with everyone he cares for.

The mass of dishes and spills he leaves behind are another matter. Eames piles another spattered bowl in the sink, heedless of the mess as he pours his hollandaise into a little jug and sets it out for Arthur to add to the table. Tonight it’s hanger steaks, parsnip mash, and haricots verts hollandaise for seven, plus the lovely eggplant salad Yusuf brought. Arthur’s friends Javier and Patrick have brought the wine, while Tim and Armin brought dessert.

If Eames loves to cook, Arthur loves to serve. He sets the table and keeps everyone genially entertained while Eames sears his steaks on a smoking cast-iron skillet and stirs a touch more butter into his mash. Everything’s better with more butter.

It’s nice to see Arthur’s friends mixing with his own. Eames steals a glance at Arthur, lean and laughing as he perches on the back of the couch and entertains everyone. His eyes crinkle at the corners when Javier says something about stealing Arthur’s hair gel in Cincinnati, and he laughs until he clutches his stomach when Tim tells an embarrassing story about Eames slipping in a puddle of silicone latex polish at Astrid’s birthday party. Eames would flay all his mortifying secrets to see Arthur laugh like that. Eames plates his steak—juicy, tender, cut against the grain—and clears his throat.

“Dinner is served,” he says, emerging from the kitchen with a flourish of his towel and a heaping plate of meat. 

“Does he always cook like this?” Javier stage-whispers to Arthur, who smiles serenely over his wine glass. 

“Yes,” Arthur says, staring at Eames, and Eames knows, just  _ knows _ , that Arthur’s picturing the last time Eames fed him by hand while Arthur was naked at his feet. 

“There’s no greater pleasure than feeding the ones we love,” Eames says amiably, and toasts to pleasure before everyone digs in. He smiles at the moans of appreciation all around, especially the way Arthur closes his eyes around a bite of steak. 

Tim sets his wineglass down and looks at Eames over the candlelight. “So, what are your big plans for the Black Party, Eames?”

“Oh, I’ve heard about that,” Javier says around a mouthful of parsnip, as Patrick gives him a blank look. “It’s this huge, all-night S&M party, right? It’s been going on for years.”

“It’s one of the longest-running parties in the city,” Tim says. “And Eames’s scenes are always a highlight.”

“Remember when we built that ridiculous wood frame?” Yusuf reminisces, pointing his fork at Eames. “He turned three men into a rocking horse. Spectacular stuff.”

Armin nods. “Last year, Eames found these two puppy-boys and made them br—”

“I hadn’t thought about it,” Eames lies, just to stave off the crease of Arthur’s forehead and the increasingly-unsettled look on Patrick’s face. Of course he’s thought about it. He’s thought about mentioning it to Arthur a dozen times, and found a dozen reasons to put it off until later. The Black Party is one of the titans of the leather scene, a frantic, endless night of sex and play and dancing. Arthur falls so easily into Eames’s arms that it’s easy to forget he’s still new to everything. He could be the best scene Eames has ever done, or he could hate it. Eames takes an awkward sip of his wine.

Like any good dom, Tim’s sensitive to shifts in tone. He gallantly changes the subject and gets Javier to tell them more misadventures in cosplay and That One Time Arthur’s Hair Wasn’t Perfect, and Yusuf tells a different embarrassing story about Eames slipping in a puddle of lube. Arthur relaxes back to his charming self and takes the teasing in good humor, and before Eames knows it they’ve finished dessert and Arthur’s locking the door as Yusuf trudges upstairs with leftover mille-feuille and half a bottle of wine.

Because Arthur is either a figment of Eames’s imagination, or certifiably mad, he seems to genuinely enjoy doing the dishes. He sets to it right away, content to scrub and hum to himself as Eames clears the leftovers and piles dishes next to him.

Once everything is put away, Eames can’t resist the soft temptation of Arthur’s nape, where he’s bent in concentration over a saucepan. Eames sneaks behind him, bracketing his hands around Arthur’s waist and nuzzling into the bare spot of skin above his shirt collar. That’s another conversation Eames has been working up the pluck to have. Arthur’s neck is too beautiful to be so bare when they’re together. Arthur should have a collar, something as beautiful and special as he is. Something that says,  _ this belongs to Eames, please don’t let it run away. _

“So, the Black Party,” Arthur opens, leaning into Eames as he squeezes his sponge dry. “That sounds… interesting.”

Eames blinks. “Does it?” he says carefully, kissing along the side of Arthur’s neck. He tamps down the excitement in his belly. He can’t push Arthur into the deep end.

“I googled it in the bathroom,” Arthur admits, rinsing off some cutlery. “It looks intense.”

“Whatever you saw, it’s ten times worse, I promise,” Eames says. The things he’s seen at the Black Party could strip the paint off his walls. It’s one of the highlights of Eames’s year. “It’s not like Nadia’s play parties. It’s like a bacchanal, a real one, like some Ancient Greek shit where you see someone wearing a goat’s head while he gets sodomized. Like everyone goes mad all together.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, squaring his shoulders and turning to face Eames. “I want to go.”

Arthur sets his jaw and stares at Eames, with that stubborn streak that rubs against Eames like a flint to tinder.

“If I take you to that party, Arthur, I’m going to do terrible things to you while everyone watches us.” Eames winds his arms tighter around Arthur’s waist. Eames’s heartbeat trips against his neck, spreading heat across his chest where Arthur’s close to him.  _ Terrible things _ . 

“You promise?” Arthur says, ducking in to kiss Eames. The press of Arthur’s lips makes him sway, but it’s the sharp bite of his teeth on Eames’s bottom lip that makes him itch for leather and rope.

“I know exactly what I want to do to you,” Eames says, because he does. He’s been dreaming about it since the first time he slipped some rope around Arthur’s wrists.

Arthur’s smile is thicker than honey. “Tell me.”

~

How has it taken Eames this long to put Arthur in a jock strap?

Even with nothing but three strips of elastic and the barest prayer of cotton covering his cock, Arthur’s considerably more dressed than half the men around them, and twice as lovely. His boots shine in the club lights, a match to the spit-polish he’d put on Eames’s boots before they’d left. They’d both checked their shirts, phones, and dignity, per the house rules.

The crowd pulses around them as Eames leads Arthur through the sea of bodies and strobing lights. People Eames barely remembers stop him to say  _ hello _ and cast appraising looks at Arthur, who weathers it all with his usual icy charm. Arthur clings close to him, his hands firmly planted in the straps of Eames’s harness or the waistband of his jeans. More than a few people turn to stare as they walk past.

Eames had bought Arthur’s new jockstrap, but the bruises had been entirely Arthur’s idea. A riot of purples and blues blooms up the backs of his thighs and climbs the swell of his arse, bearing the inevitable asymmetry of Eames’s right-handedness. Arthur knows how to style himself even when he’s barely dressed.

The mandatory phone-check had put Arthur at ease. Any party worth its salt doesn’t last long without discretion, and Eames has two little tags for their phones tucked into his back pocket just like everyone else. There are a few official photographers who take pictures with explicit permission, and they already know not to bother asking Eames. Some things should stay in the dark.

They’re in a huge warehouse space in the South Bronx, but it’s taken on that liminal quality of all good parties. They could be in Berlin or São Paulo or Sydney, they could be in space with Arthur’s sex-raccoons. It’s just bright enough to see the gleam of sweat on bare skin, the flare of glitter and gold and polished rubber, wet mouths and writhing bodies parting for them as Eames leads Arthur to a quiet corner.

“I didn’t know you could buy that much lube,” Arthur marvels, staring as a big bear sinks his arm into a 55-gallon drum of something shiny.

“You can get anything on Amazon these days, I swear,” Eames says mildly. Arthur’s teeth glint in the blacklights as he laughs. 

“Still glad we brought our own.” He wrinkles his nose as bear-guy sinks his hand into some lucky fellow. Eames slides his hand down to trace over the leather straps cinched around Arthur’s thigh. He’d made a set of them, two doubled straps with little pouches that rest against the outside of Arthur’s leg. One has a bottle of lube. The other one’s for later.

“My little pack horse,” Eames says fondly, pulling Arthur to his chest as he leans against the wall. Arthur snorts.

“You’d make a lovely pony,” Eames muses. “Get you a bit and some ears,  _ oh _ , and a little set of hooves. Maybe next year?”

“Maybe,” Arthur says, threading his fingers into the straps of Eames’s harness. “If you wear a proper set of breeches.”

“Darling, I’m British,” Eames says, as posh as he can, which is a perfectly sufficient response given the way Arthur kisses him. The dull throb of the bass seeps into his back as they make out against the wall. Arthur’s not usually this forward in public, going all-in with his tongue and his hands all over Eames. There’s something in the air, or maybe it’s just that Arthur hasn’t gotten properly fucked in a week.

Eames isn’t superstitious, but he likes tradition. He’d been single last year, so staving himself off for the week leading up to the Black Party hadn’t been too great a hardship. Having an Arthur in his life had made it significantly more difficult, although the way Arthur relentlessly pouted and pawed at his cock had made it seem like he was the one suffering more than Eames. 

Arthur’s back at it, eagerly sliding his palm over the bulge of Eames’s crotch. It’s not like he hasn’t been taking care of Arthur, far from it. Arthur’s gotten more head from Eames in the past week than any sane man should be able to tolerate, and every sex toy either of them owns has been put to good work. Still, to Eames’s muffled pride and Arthur’s sloe-eyed chagrin, nothing seems to satisfy Arthur more than Eames inside him. He’ll have plenty of that tonight.

“On your knees, pet.”

Arthur scrambles to comply, heedless of the crowd edging in around them. He should deny Arthur more often. But then Arthur’s mouth is on him and Eames remembers why he can’t deny Arthur anything for too long. Eames’s head knocks back against the rough wall as Arthur nuzzles against him, breathing Eames in and huffing warm against his skin. Arthur might murmur a loving “missed you” against his balls, but it’s hard to tell over the music. 

“Slow,” Eames chides, giving Arthur’s hair a firm tug until he finds a nice, easy pace. He’s not breaking his streak in Arthur’s mouth. He sneers politely at a few familiar faces, some interested, some envious. Their looks slide off of him like the circling lights that beam down from the rafters, leaving Eames in the shadows to wonder how he got so lucky. Arthur’s eyes are closed in concentration when Eames looks down at him, but Arthur’s focused contentment is palpable. 

The party moves around them like a living thing, throbbing and dancing and fucking to one heartbeat. Eames is at home here, calm to the toes of his boots as Arthur lazily sucks him off. He scans the crowd and recognizes his own handiwork lashed across the chests of several men, and he pets the back of Arthur’s neck fondly as he sees the anniversary ball-gag he’d made for George and Fernando. Eames has been up to his ears in orders, but he vows to finish Arthur’s collar as soon as things settle down. It’s the least he deserves.

“That’s enough,” Eames says. He hauls Arthur up by the hair, kisses the string of spit off his lips as Arthur gasps for air. Eames shakes him until his eyes slide open.

“I’m going to fuck you now, Arthur.”

Arthur turns to look at the crowd at his back, his eyes wide. Eames grabs him by the chin and turns him back. “I want them all to know who you belong to.”

That settles something in Arthur. His face unfolds as he reaches for Eames, winding his arms around Eames’s neck and kissing him. 

Eames grabs Arthur around the waist and turns them around, until Arthur’s facing the wall and Eames is pressed behind him. He traces his hand down the ladder of Arthur’s ribs and under the taut elastic of his jock. There, nestled inside Arthur like a hidden treasure, is the thick black plug Eames had worked into him before they left the house. Eames plucks at it, working it out slowly where Arthur’s clutching it tight. “You’re going to show everyone how good you are at taking my cock.”

Arthur’s so lubed up the plug shines when Eames hands it to him. Still, Eames slips the bottle of lube Arthur’s been ferrying for them out of its pouch and drizzles some on his cock. Fifty-five gallons is a bit extreme, but there’s no such thing as too much lube. Especially when he presses into Arthur in one long push, steadying himself on the wing of Arthur’s hip as he sinks in. One week away from this is more than any man should bear. Arthur braces himself against the wall and lets his head fall forward, his back one smooth plane that glimmers blue and white in the lights. 

Eames can feel the eyes on him, sliding across his back and curving around to steal a glimpse of Arthur. Arthur does take his cock well, as graceful and effortless in his surrender as he is in Eames’s ropes. Arthur trusts him enough to be vulnerable like this, to come undone in a room full of strangers and know that Eames will set him back to rights. Eames has no problem admitting how much he loves a crowd, but Arthur’s more reticent to own his exhibitionism, another treat Eames can prise out of his hands and swallow for himself. Better to ease him in slowly, with his body shielding Arthur from the hungry eyes of the crowd. 

Eames slips his hand around to cup over the front of Arthur’s jock, just to feel how hard Arthur is. Arthur knows not to come without permission, and Eames can’t resist giving him a good, long stroke through the damp cotton. He can just hear Arthur’s moan over the grinding throb of the music, but the clench of him around Eames’s cock is deafening. Eames’s lip rides up his teeth, his hips snapping to attention. 

“Good boy,” Eames says, holding him tight as he digs in and lets himself go. It’s hardly a record for Eames’s stamina, but he’s going for quantity over quality tonight. He wants Arthur full.

Arthur slides one shaking hand back, the plug clutched in his fingers. Eames steadies himself, savoring a few more stolen seconds in Arthur’s welcome heat before he slips out and stoppers Arthur back up. He drags them both upright and takes a greedy whiff of Arthur’s neck, warm and sweaty as it is. 

“That was fun,” Arthur says, vibrating against Eames as he hastily tucks himself back in. 

Where Eames is rolling in a wave of post-orgasmic lassitude, Arthur’s keyed up and itching to dance. He pulls Eames head-first into the roil of the dancefloor, plunging past every size and shape of naked body to find a spot next to one of the go-go stages. One of the dancers squats down to wink at Arthur and make a hand gesture universal in its meaning. Eames had wanted to suck Arthur’s cock the moment he saw him, too, so he’s quite sympathetic, but he’s also disgustingly pleased when Arthur demurely shakes his head and tucks himself under Eames’s arm. Eames accepts kissed hands and tipped hats from old friends and slight acquaintances, and the satisfied preening of several of his customers. Marcus and his husbands give him slaps on the back that almost knock him over, singing his sex-swing-making praises and cooing over Arthur. Arthur stays plastered onto him, rolling in the second-hand attention and grinding against Eames like he’s the one working for tips.

Eames can take a hint. He bends Arthur over and fucks him right on the edge of the stage, to the delight of everyone around them. Their go-go dancer watches with unabashed marvel as Eames slides Arthur’s plug back inside him, and Arthur gives him a wink as Eames tucks a sweaty twenty into his g-string.

They set off in search of water, passing bootblacks and whipping posts and a wrestling ring that’s made infernal use of one of the drums of lube. Eames politely side-steps the advances of half the puppy-boys in the kennel section, including the two spotty-eared twinks he’d made such good use of last year. He’ll tell Arthur that story another time.

Two old-guard leather daddies share a cigar and give Arthur a look that could steal someone’s virginity. Eames pulls him closer, a swell of pride in his chest.

“Do you have one of those hats?” Arthur asks as they weave through the crowd. 

“At home, somewhere,” Eames says. They’re not really his style, but he appreciates tradition.

“Good to know.” Arthur’s smile disappears into his dimples. 

Eames huffs as a hand claps against his back. It’s Tim, resplendent in chaps and a leather vest. Armin’s got his collar on, a lovely thing Eames had made him with a rolled edge and locking hardware. Arthur stares at it.

“Having fun, boys?” Tim gives Arthur a once-over like he already knows the answer.

“Yeah,” Arthur nods, tearing his eyes away from Armin’s neck to smile at Tim. Eames bites his lip.  _ Soon, little bird. _

“When are you on stage?” Tim asks, an easy hand settling around Armin’s waist.

“After James and his boy.” Which by Eames’s rough accounting gives him 45 minutes to do his worst to Arthur.

“Can’t wait.” Tim tips his hat and whisks Armin away, to the stocks, if Eames had to guess. 

They gulp down bottles of over-priced water and it’s once again into the fray. Eames looks for the thick of it, where bodies are pressed together and the lights leave nothing to the imagination. He wrestles Arthur down to the ground and fucks him on the sweat-soaked mats, amidst a sea of boots and hungry eyes that know to keep an inch of distance. No one’s touching Arthur, but they can watch as he barely keeps his hands under him while Eames stuffs him full for the third time. It’s hot and gross and everything stinks like lube and men and sex, and Eames has never felt so alive.

Even with his legs shaking under him, Arthur’s a trooper. He hangs on Eames’s harness like it’s a tow line as Eames guides them to the main stage, where Master James is making beautiful and bloody work of his boy’s back with a bullwhip. Eames wouldn’t cut Arthur up like that, but it’s enchanting to watch. Arthur’s a warm and steady presence at his side, pressed tight to Eames as he watches, rapt. Arthur doesn’t flinch from the ugly stuff, the blood and grime that separates the tourists from the true believers. 

“We’re next, pet.” Eames chucks Arthur under the chin and turns him from side to side, coolly assessing him. Arthur’s a wreck. His face is flushed under the back-glow of the stage lights, and his hair is raked to madness, half falling in his eyes. He’s gorgeous.

“I’m ready,” Arthur says, his eyes glinting. Eames knows that anticipatory curl of his lip, the hum under Arthur’s skin that radiates off him. With the crowd watching as they mount the stage, Arthur wants that adrenaline rush as much as he does. 

“Just like we practiced,” Eames whispers as they wait for one of the stage-boys to clean up and set up Eames’s suspension structure. His gear bag waits for him at the edge of the stage. 

“Gentlemen, I give you Mr. Eames,” booms the MC before glancing down at his card, “and his Boy Wonder.”

Arthur lets out a sharp, delighted laugh as he follows Eames into the spotlight. 

There’s always a moment on stage when Eames steps into himself. There are things he can only be with an audience, parts of himself that only exist in the suspended animation of public play. He ties the same knots around Arthur’s body, builds the same hard points and cradles to get him aloft and floating, caresses Arthur the same way he has a hundred times, but it ripples over Eames’s skin so differently than when they’re alone. He needs this testament, this bearing witness to Arthur’s surrender. 

No one with functioning eyes and even the smallest appreciation for beauty could look away from Arthur. Limber and lithe and covered in the livid evidence of Eames’s affection, he stretches bruise-striped skin and the gleaming wreck of his slick thighs wherever Eames leads them. The murmur of the crowd mounts higher as he puts Arthur through his paces, upside-down and spinning through the air and back again with his chest facing the floor and his hips horizontal for Eames to cradle his dazed, perfect face. 

“Remember, I’ve got you.” Eames kisses him, to the whoops of the crowd. He grabs five hanks of rope and gets more jeers of delight when he has Arthur hold one of them in his mouth. He rests the other four on the flat of Arthur’s back. The jeering gets worse when he winks at the crowd and unbuckles his own harness, letting the leather hit the floor. Eames would wager it’s Tim who screams “Take off your pants!” but he can’t be sure. He rolls his eyes and gives an affectionate middle finger to the crowd and takes his rope from Arthur’s mouth, being sure to replace it before he unspools the rope in his hands. 

He works quickly for this part. There’s nothing terribly entertaining about Eames building two suspension points on himself. He sets up a quick chest-harness and a hip-brace over his jeans, which he won’t be taking off despite any more urging from the crowd. He uses two more hanks of rope to secure his chest-harness and hips to the top-rig, knotting them off differently from Arthur’s so it’s clear which is which, and then hauls himself up next to Arthur. 

“Hello there,” Eames whispers into Arthur’s ear as he sways next to him. His voice is strained from bearing his own weight, but it’s nothing compared to the drawn-out  _ “Hiiiii...” _ Arthur gives him in return. Arthur’s floating. Eames slides under him, not as graceful as he’d like with Arthur’s lead-lines vying with his own. He manages to line himself up as sweat starts to drip from his forehead.

Eames runs a double-line between them, linking his chest-harness to Arthur’s own and doing the same to their hip lines. Eames has to trust his knots here, as much as Arthur trusts him. He smiles up at Arthur as he cinches them together. “Hold on tight.”

Arthur wraps himself around Eames’s body, giving the appearance of holding him up. The leather straps of Arthur’s thigh harnesses press against Eames’s hips, and Eames feels for the snap of a pouch before he finds it.

He pulls the knife out slowly, savoring the groan that swells from the audience. He lets it glint in the light, a gleaming possibility. 

It takes all of Eames’s strength to reach up to sever Arthur’s lead-lines. His head pounds and his arms shake with the effort as he quickly cuts Arthur’s hip-line and his chest-line. In a moment of perfect awareness, everything moves slowly, one line snapping free as he hacks at the other, and then they’re free-falling with Arthur clinging to him. The drop wrenches them both, and someone in the audience screams. Arthur laughs against him.

It hurts, the sudden snap of Arthur’s weight added to his own, the shift in his center of gravity that leaves Eames on top and tilting to one side while Arthur cleaves to him. They’ll both have bruises from this. 

Applause ripples through the audience as they sway together, and it doubles when Arthur lets go of him and hangs free, his only points of attachment where he’s tied to Eames’s body. Cut rope trails behind him, pooling on the stage floor. 

Eames cuts his own hip-line free and lands both their feet on the floor. It’s a good thing Arthur’s about his height, or one of them would be straining on his tip-toes to reach the ground. He slides the knife back into Arthur’s thigh holster and snaps it shut. 

Pressed together, they throb in unison, aching where the ropes had held them and thrumming where they’re still connected. Arthur’s skin sticks to his, hot and sweaty where Arthur can’t seem to stop moving. He’s hard, straining against the front of his jock strap. Eames grins, wolfish, at Arthur’s pleading noise when he rocks against Eames.

He angles them so Arthur’s back is to the crowd, bruised and branded from the rope. He slides his hand down to grip behind Arthur’s knee, wrapping one of Arthur’s legs around him. The angle leaves nothing to the crowd’s imagination, and there’s a rumble from the crowd that Eames can feel in his core when he reaches around to trace over the flared black base of Arthur’s plug. Arthur jerks at the touch, rutting against Eames, his face seeking out the warmth of Eames’s neck. Arthur’s been on edge since Eames worked his toy inside him hours ago. It won’t take much.

Up on stage, in the glow of the lights, the crowd breathes with them, rising and swelling with every roll of Arthur’s hips, every slip of Eames’s fingers as he teases the plug out of Arthur just to sink it back in. All of Eames’s focus narrows down to Arthur, shored up by the awe of everyone who gets to see them do something so private in public. He can show everyone how much he loves Arthur, show them what Arthur will take for him. 

He kisses along the slope of Arthur’s cheek, urging him up until Arthur finds his mouth and kisses him. Arthur’s eyes are barely focused as he looks at Eames, and tears well up glassy and bright as his lip starts to tremble. He’s so close. Eames pulls the plug free and holds it up to roaring cheers.

It’s communion, to break the bread of Arthur’s body and offer it to everyone, to sup from his mouth and catch the salty transubstantiation of Arthur’s tears on his tongue. Eames closes his eyes, rolling with Arthur as he comes, soaking through the cotton between them, twitching and groaning as the crowd goes wild. Eames can’t see, but a quick sweep of his fingers tells him that Arthur’s leaking for everyone to see, slick ropes of Eames’s come that trail down his thigh. 

Eames look out at the crowd, smiling to his teeth as he licks up the side of the plug before tossing it off-stage.  _ He’s mine _ .

Arthur’s legs are wobbly when Eames sets him back down on both feet. A few quick tugs have them free of the ropes, and Eames holds him up and pulls him in for another kiss. Arthur reels, staring at Eames, his smile so big it could eclipse the spotlights.

Eames grabs his discarded harness and slings it over his shoulder before taking a modest bow and kissing Arthur again. Arthur stares out at the crowd as people cheer, his eyes wide before breaking into a huge grin. Eames leans in to murmur in Arthur’s ear, “Well done, darling.” 

“I don’t wanna walk,” Arthur says, his voice slurred and starry-eyed as he steadies himself on Eames’s bicep. 

To the cheers of the crowd, Eames throws Arthur over his shoulder and carries him off-stage.

~

~

~

It’s a drizzly Wednesday evening when Eames breaks Arthur’s bed.

They’re not even fucking. Or, at least, they’re in between Eames fucking his face and fucking his ass, that tense moment when Arthur gets to gasp for air and cough up his own spit and all the other things Eames likes, unsure whether Eames is going to plunge back into his throat or flip him over and make him cry from the other end. It’s magic, that moment, a struck bell of pure present-tense where Arthur could float forever, open and ready and more himself than he’s ever been.

Which, of course, is when Eames grabs the headboard and pulls the whole fucking thing off.

“Fucking hell,” Eames barks, just before the legs give and Arthur’s bed hits the floor with a dull  _ thwunk _ . Eames lands on him, heavy and hot, and there’s a clatter as Eames throws the last piece of the headboard aside. “Christ, love, I’m sorry—”

_ “Do not,” _ Arthur snaps, because it’s his shitty bed snapped to pieces beneath them, and he’s clearly suffered enough for one day,  _ “stop fucking me.” _

Eames rolls them onto the floor and doesn’t stop until Arthur’s mumbling nonsense and coming all over himself. 

“We should use the floor more often,” Arthur jokes when they’re done, tucking himself onto Eames’s chest and grabbing the edge of a sheet to cover them. 

Eames brushes a strand of hair off Arthur’s face. “Suppose we’re sleeping at mine tonight?”

“I need clean underwear,” Arthur grumbles. He has everything else at Eames’s house already. He sighs, loathe to leave the floor, which in Eames’s arms is quite comfortable.

“Tim has a truck, right? Maybe we could borrow it and go to Ikea this weekend?” Arthur frowns against the warm pillow of Eames’s chest. Ikea on a weekend is a Circle of Hell he’d hoped to avoid for the rest of his adult life, but he can’t afford much more right now, not with three new outfits and four cons in his immediate future.

“I’m not letting you purchase some tawdry Scandinavian particleboard,” Eames says, sounding genuinely offended.

“And Arthur,” he continues, “I’ve been thinking. I know it’s not as convenient for work, but I have lots of space, and I could make you the most lovely sewing corner, and, well.” Eames leans up onto one elbow, his face soft so soft that something hums to stillness in Arthur. “Do you want to move in with me?”

Arthur blinks, which seems like a reasonable response. “Is this just an elaborate scheme to avoid Ikea?”

Eames laughs, crooked and charming. “I will go to great lengths to avoid that blue-and-yellow hell, yes, but I swear, I’ve been wanting to ask you for a while. You’re over all the time, or I’m here, and my rent’s cheap to boot, you know that Yusuf’s parents charge me next to nothing.”

Arthur had almost fainted when Eames told him just how far below market value his rent is. Eames’s taste in clothes and his rent are both stuck somewhere in the late seventies. “Is Yusuf cool with it?”

“Yes, he thinks it’s a wonderful idea, and before you ask, I promise he’ll be more domesticated. No more wandering in willy-nilly. Or at least less of it, he swears.” Eames’s hand is warm where he presses it to Arthur’s chest. “I want to sleep next to you every night, Arthur.”

Arthur always wakes up first, and he hasn’t tired of seeing Eames next to him once. “I’m going to rearrange your entire kitchen. And your bathroom cabinets,” Arthur warns, as Eames breaks into a grin.

“Is that a yes?”

Arthur looks around at his small, sensible apartment, with its meager sunlight and plain furniture. It’s a perfectly good apartment, reasonably-priced for the area. It would be easy to find someone to take over his lease. Arthur’s been perfectly content here. But he’s never loved it the way he loves Eames’s home, loves the sweeping mess and bright colors and dangerous edges of Eames’s life. Of Eames himself.

“Yes,” Arthur says, his voice quiet as he laces his hand into Eames’s. “Yes, I’ll move in with you.”

Eames kisses him and tumbles them over until Arthur’s on top of him. “We should fuck on the floor one more time. For a proper send-off.” Eames punctuates this with a quick slap to Arthur’s ass, and Arthur couldn’t agree more. 

They make it off the floor eventually, and Arthur manages to pack some underwear and his laptop before Eames starts bemoaning how hungry he is. 

“We’ll get something on the way,” Arthur decides. Curling up on Eames’s big couch with a movie and some takeout sounds just right. They take the train, comfortable next to each other while Eames reads one of Arthur’s Batwoman trades (Arthur knew he’d love the Williams run) and Arthur reads Eames’s copy of  _ The Shadow of the Wind _ . A longer commute isn’t so bad with something good to read.

They stop and get some falafel to go, with extra tabouleh for Arthur. When they reach Eames’s door, he turns and bars Arthur’s entry, a smile on his face. “I have something for you.” 

“Is it a pony?” Arthur can’t help himself.

Eames ignores him. “You’re going to love it, it’s just the thing if you’re going to be here full-time.”

Arthur’s skin flushes up to his ears, and he presses his hand against his neck as Eames opens the noisy police lock on his door. A tingle settles around his throat. He’s been wondering, and he tries not to get too excited as Eames covers his eyes with his hands and walks him inside.

They’re in what Arthur best approximates as the kitchen when Eames pulls his hands off Arthur’s eyes. “Surprise!”

There, on Eames’s kitchen counter, is a huge piece of glistening chrome covered in knobs and pulleys.

“It’s… an espresso machine?” Arthur says dully. His face tingles and his hands fall at his sides. 

“One of the nicest ones you can get, apparently,” Eames gushes, leaving Arthur to stand in shock as he does a passable Vanna White at the new machine. “Nadia upgraded the one in her studio, so I traded some new restraints for her old one, but don’t worry, it’s barely used, sings like a bird. Now I won’t have to pop down to Sweetleaf every morning for your Americanos, won’t that be…”

Eames trails off, frowning at Arthur’s expression. “Don’t you like it?”

“No, I mean yes, it’s great,” Arthur says, forcing some cheer into his voice. It  _ is _ lovely, the sort of thoughtful, homey gesture that should make him feel even more welcome in Eames’s space. Arthur presses his hand to his neck. “I just thought…” Arthur presses his lips together, fighting the tremble that threatens just behind them.

“We can still use the French press?” Eames offers, voice faltering as Arthur blinks his eyes. 

There’s an old voice inside of Arthur that tells him to leave. To run, to grab his mask and his cape and head to the nearest skyscraper, to get out before Eames can hurt him more. Feeling foolish is an old barb Arthur hates the most, that hot-cold rush of shock that wriggles under his skin and shows him how wanting he really is. Eames hasn’t made him a collar, he doesn’t think of Arthur like that. Arthur swallows, his throat thick.

“I love it,” Arthur lies, blinking back the stupid tears that prick the corners of his eyes. He’s such an idiot.

“Arthur,” Eames says, approaching him slowly, his hands out like Arthur’s a spooked animal. “This isn’t about the espresso maker. What’s happened?”

“Nothing,” Arthur insists, willing it to be true as he clenches a hand at his side. His nails bite into his palm. Arthur thought a lot had happened. Eames said he’d done so well when he’d subbed for him at Nadia’s, and the Black Party had left him floating on a high that lasted for days. Here he’d been thinking he was fitting in so well with Eames’s life.

“Talk to me? Please?” Eames steps closer to him. It would be so easy to end this. To run out and never come back. It’s always Arthur’s choice, isn’t it? To say a word and bring everything to a stop? 

“It’s nothing,” Arthur repeats, like he can make it reality, his voice shaking. Then Eames’s arms slide around him and Arthur can’t hide the catch in his throat. “It’s dumb.”

“Nothing about you could be dumb, Arthur,” Eames says, wrapping him up tight. Arthur presses his face to Eames’s chest, helpless against how good he smells. This is when Arthur leaves, when he saves himself from the risk of falling further. He still has his apartment, his dreary little box in his boring neighborhood, his comic books and his costumes. It’s all gray next to Eames’s throbbing color.

Eames’s t-shirt soaks up the tear that refuses to stay in Arthur’s eye, seeping into the impassive faces of The Jam. He turns his cheek, blinking furiously. Eames’s kitchen is always chaos incarnate, bursting with half-abandoned culinary projects and delicious disaster. Unlike the bare stainless steel surface of Arthur’s refrigerator, Eames’s is covered with pictures and ticket stubs and flyers and scraps of paper, the detritus Eames seems to pick up wherever he goes. Tucked behind the Lucha Vavoom ticket Eames has tacked up with a chipped pig magnet and a scotch-taped Jehovah’s Witness flyer proclaiming “Homosexual Invasion!” in garish horror-movie script, Arthur blinks at a familiar illustration. It’s the Batman and Robin he’d sent to Eames, a lifetime ago, when he’d thought all this could be just another costume. Eames has sketched over it, adding Arthur’s features to Robin in bold, blue strokes of pencil. He can’t go back to black-and-white. Arthur sniffles against Eames, hating how childish he sounds.

“Why haven’t you made me a collar?” Arthur whispers into the safety of Eames’s neck, hardly hearing himself.

Eames rears back to stare at him, shock written all over his face.

“A collar? Is that what you…?” His face veers from surprise to worry to the break of a smile so quickly Arthur can’t catch up.

“I know we haven’t talked about it, but I thought, after everything, that you’d want to, that we should,” Arthur stammers, caught in the strange headlights of Eames’s incandescent smile.

“Arthur,” Eames says, his hands cupping over Arthur’s cheeks. “ _ Arthur _ . Let me show you something.”

He takes Arthur by the wrist to one of his worktables, the one where he does his cutting, and rummages around through the mismatched boxes stashed beneath it before he finds a Dr. Martens shoebox patched together with duct tape. He flips the lid open and dumps the contents out. Strips of leather and buckles scatter everywhere.

“I’ve been working on these for weeks.” Eames tosses the box aside and snorts. “I’ve made you a dozen collars, Arthur, at least.”

The pile of leather isn’t shining with any magic or glowing like a video-game stash pile, but Arthur’s drawn to it before the rest of him can catch up. He runs his hands over different cuts and thicknesses of leather, different shapes and sizes that drag against his skin until a familiar shape catches his eye.

It’s the Nightwing symbol, rendered into clean lines and overlaid at the center of an inch-thick strip of leather. A small O-ring dangles from the center. Arthur traces over the edges of the wings, over the tiny, perfect stitches joining them to the body of the collar.

Eames sighs. “I can’t seem to get one right, I keep starting over and then—”

“This one,” Arthur says, clutching the Nightwing collar in his palm and looking up at Eames. “I want this one.”

Eames crosses his arms over his chest and frowns. “Turn it over.”

Arthur’s heart takes wing in his chest. There, stamped into the leather are the words “LITTLE BIRD.” Arthur laughs, a quick huff that gets caught in his throat as he looks closer at the letters. They’re perfect right until the last one.

“I got the bloody “D” backwards,” Eames sulks, and Arthur has never wanted to kiss him so badly.

He loops his arms around Eames’s neck and does just that. “I love it.” 

“I’ll make you another one, with the letters right.” Eames smiles as Arthur kisses him, over and over until he’s dizzy with it.

“I don’t want another one.” Arthur shakes his head, insistent. “It’s perfect.”

“At least try it on first,” Eames says, humming with concern as Arthur pulls back. 

Arthur presses the collar into Eames’s hand. “I want you to put it on me.”

Eames nods, serious suddenly as he takes the collar from Arthur. “Take your shirt off.”

It’s an accident that he’s in the same spot he’d been standing the first time he’d taken his shirt off for Eames. That feels like a different Arthur now, as he quickly strips bare to the waist and waits for Eames, calm and quiet. He knows the creak of Eames’s floor, now, the warm weight of Eames’s hands over his shoulders. He stands up tall, his shoulders back and his neck stretched long as Eames clasps the collar around him. 

Arthur’s imagined this moment. He’s seen it like a splash page, dancing across the spine of his life with Eames, rendered in black-and-white or bursting with the color in his heart. But it’s not a thunderclap of emotion or a wild moment of exaltation, nothing so dramatic. It’s just a quiet second between them, a few precious heartbeats that fill the room until Arthur can barely breathe.

Arthur presses his hand against the collar. “This means I’m yours, right?” The leather’s already warming to his skin.

“I think you’ve always been mine. I just had to find you.” Eames’s voice is soft at his back, hallowed as he slides the tail-end of the collar through the buckle and smoothes it down. “It’s just a thing, Arthur. It means whatever we want it to mean.”

Arthur turns in his arms. “I want to wear it when we go out to parties. I want to wear it whenever we’re home, when we’re in  _ our _ home.”

Eames licks his lips. “We can work on some rules. For when you wear it.” Eames slips his index fingers through the O-ring at Arthur’s neck and tugs, gently. 

Arthur’s eyes close. “Yes.”

“First rule, we—” Arthur’s certain that Eames is about to say something devastating, something that will land him on his knees. Then Eames’s stomach rumbles against them and Arthur opens his eyes to catch him staring forlornly at the forgotten bag of falafel.

“No rules until we eat,” Arthur interjects, laughing as Eames’s stomach vehemently agrees with him. 

They share dinner with Eames on the couch and Arthur sitting at his feet, happily accepting the bites Eames offers him. Arthur cleans up, his mind racing over all the ways he can improve Eames’s haphazard cabinets. The collar is a warm weight around his neck, a hug that’s more comfortable than he’d anticipated. Eames does good work. He slides a dish into the drying rack and smiles as Eames sneaks behind him.

“Look at my perfect little sub.” Eames hugs him from behind, nosing at Arthur’s ear as he rinses another dish.

Arthur shrugs. “Looks can be deceiving.”

“No,” Eames says, refusing Arthur’s sarcasm. “I should have put this on you a long time ago. I’m sorry.” His thumb brushes over the side of the collar, making Arthur flush.

“I should have said something.”

Eames hums against him. “First rule: if something’s bothering you, tell me.”

“Can the other rules be a little more...” Arthur leans back and turns to drag his lips against Eames’s chin. “... Fun?”

“Fun?” Eames clips the word against Arthur’s ear. “Have something in mind, do you?”

“What if,” Arthur says, rolling his hips until Eames groans, “whenever I’m wearing this, I don’t come unless you say I can.”

“Well, that should be easy enough tonight, considering I’m exhausted and full of falafel,” Eames says, kissing the back of Arthur’s neck and giving him a light slap on his hip. “Insatiable,” he mutters, as Arthur turns off the tap and turns to catch his smile.

“For you? Always.” Arthur kisses him, and lets Eames lead him collar-first to the couch.

~

Later, Eames rallies and finds it in himself to break Arthur’s collar in properly. Arthur doesn’t come until he has tears rolling down his face and a fresh set of handprints on his ass. 

Afterward, Arthur lays on his back and stares up at the river-lights that dance on the ceiling while Eames dozes next to him, heavy and solid, his fingers tucked against Arthur’s collar. Arthur’s home. He turns to press a kiss to Eames’s hair, smiling. Eames grumbles against him, shifting and falling back asleep almost immediately.

“Go to sleep, little bird.”

~

_ EPILOGUE _

Suspicion shouldn’t be the first thing Ariadne feels when she smells something delicious wafting down Arthur’s stairs. But then, these aren’t just Arthur’s stairs, and that surely isn’t Arthur’s cooking. She follows Annie up and grins at the sight of Arthur in the doorway, scandalously underdressed in a pair of skinny jeans and a Nightwing t-shirt. It almost distracts her from the black collar sitting around his neck.

“It smells so good in here,” Annie squeals, giving Arthur one of her trademark enthusiastic hugs before Eames appears. 

“That’s all him,” Arthur says, smiling at Eames.

“Roast chicken and veg, love, nothing special.” Eames shrugs off their praise as Annie kisses him on both cheeks. She towers over him in her boots, a fact that doesn’t seem to bother Eames in the slightest. 

“Petal,” Eames says, wrapping Ariadne up in a hug and kissing her on the cheek. Ariadne towers over no one in this room, and her face squishes against his broad chest. He smells like herbs and wine, and he has a kitchen towel slung over one shoulder. It covers half of the pouting face on his faded black Damned t-shirt.

“We brought dessert,” Annie says, dangling their Tous Les Jours cake box from her fingertips. 

“Is it the green tea one?” Eames asks, rubbing his hands together. 

“With the strawberries,” Annie confirms, handing the box to Arthur. He whisks it away to a far countertop before Eames can pry at the box. Half of Annie’s apprenticeship seems to entail knowing what baked goods Eames favors. Eames has a sweet tooth big enough for both him  _ and _ Arthur.

“You know the way to my heart, darling,” Eames sings, taking their coats and bags to the bedroom before disappearing back to whatever delicious thing is simmering on the stovetop.

“I’ve got a Pinot Project open, or I can find something pink in the fridge.” Arthur pulls two wineglasses from the open shelving. He’s only been living here for two months, but he already moves about like he’s personally organized everything in the place. He probably has.

The kitchen is the beating heart of any home, and Eames and Arthur’s is bursting with life. It’s a dance between the creative mess of Eames’s cooking and the gleaming polish of Arthur’s order, but they work well together. The fridge is a hodge-podge of pictures and postcards and cryptic notes, but the impressive espresso maker is pristine. A drawing of Bane is framed above it, rendered like a Tom of Finland pin-up. There’s a scrap of brown paper tucked into one edge, a quick sketch of a little bird.  _ A robin _ . Ariadne grins.

“He makes me a flat white every morning.” Arthur appears at her elbow with a glass of wine, his smile so pleased she has to fight the adolescent urge to tease him.

“Is that a jizz thing?” She accepts her glass of wine and Arthur’s hug and kiss. Her forehead grazes against the collar at Arthur’s throat. It fits him perfectly, which is presumably one of the benefits of having a boyfriend who makes them. The Nightwing shape at the front is a nice touch, with the V-shape highlighting Arthur’s long neck. 

Arthur catches her staring at it.

“I’ve been wearing it around the house, when it’s appropriate. Figured you wouldn’t mind.” Arthur shrugs, going for nonchalant, but she knows better. 

“Of course I don’t mind,” she says earnestly. “It looks good on you.”

Arthur smiles. She’s seen more of those dimples since he met Eames than she had in the entirety of high school and college combined. Eames is good for him.

She’d worried when Arthur had moved in. She’s shared enough hotel rooms with him to know how exacting he is about his space, and what an absolute cunt he is before his first cup of coffee. 

“To new homes, and old friends,” Arthur cheers, clinking his glass against hers. Ariadne takes a sip as they join Annie and Eames at the kitchen island. There’s even a cheese plate. Eames is good for all of them.

Arthur is more relaxed than she’s ever seen him. He dances around Eames, tidying up as Eames cooks, setting the table for them, handing Eames a carving knife before he even asks for it. Eames seems to touch Arthur every chance he can get—a hand on the small of his back, his fingers trailing over Arthur’s every time they pass in the kitchen, the small kiss he presses to the back of Arthur’s neck when he thinks no one’s watching. 

Dinner is delicious. Even Arthur takes seconds, and if Ariadne notices Eames slicing Arthur’s chicken breast into neat little pieces, she keeps it to herself. Eames is a consummate host, refilling their glasses and telling them stories that have everyone laughing until Arthur clears the dishes and brings out dessert. 

“Astrid tells me you’ll be making it to her party.” Eames doles out slices of cake, giving Arthur an extra strawberry and winking at him before he turns back to Annie and Ariadne.

“Yes, we can’t wait,” Annie says, giving Ariadne a heated look. Eames’s terrifying friend Astrid had invited them to her inaugural women-only play party, and Annie had gamely volunteered to suspend Ariadne. Arthur smirks at her from across the table, so Ariadne raises her eyebrows and dares him to do more.

“Which reminds me, Eames, I found these fabulous pin-up Catwoman and Batgirl illustrations, with these cute little harnesses, and I want to do something similar.” Annie beams at her. “Can you get my phone, babe?”

“Of course.” Ariadne takes a bite of cake and blithely ignores the knowing look Arthur gives her as Annie continues describing her plans for the party. She hasn’t gone full-method on the whole kink thing the way Arthur has, but she supposes she doesn’t mind the easy way Annie takes charge when they’re together.

She makes her way to Eames’s bedroom—Eames  _ and _ Arthur’s bedroom—and fishes Annie’s phone out of her purse. She’s seen this room before, but not since Arthur’s moved in. Much of it is the same. The massive windows looking out over the piers, the explosion of books, the Basquiat she’d envied the first time she’d seen it. There are small changes, though. One side of the bed is clearly Arthur’s, with a neat stack of comics and an actual alarm clock, because Arthur is far too neurotic to rely solely on his phone like a normal person. 

Eames’s nightstand looks like The Strand on a bad acid trip. She’s happy to see a volume of GCPD in there among the autobiographies and conspiracy theory books. Arthur’s doing a good job educating him. There’s a Mason-Pearson hairbrush that she suspects has very little to do with grooming peeking out from behind the spine of John Waters’s  _ Crackpot _ . There had been a time when she would have immediately teased Arthur about the old-school biker cap perched on top of yet another stack of books, but she just smiles. She’s pretty sure it’s Eames’s anyway.

There’s a new print on one wall, a close-up of a guy’s dick all tied up. She can appreciate the artistry, but she doesn’t study it too closely. “Still gay,” she muses to herself, turning back toward the door before stopping in her tracks. She hadn’t noticed this piece when she’d walked in, but now she sees why Arthur was so excited about it. 

Arthur had told her about the shoot. Saito had been as exacting as Arthur had suspected, and had taken twice as long with the lights as it had taken Eames to do his suspension. None of that time went to waste. Her skin prickles as she stares at it. She’s seen Arthur naked more times than she can count, so the bare skin on display doesn’t give her pause. Even Eames with his shirt off is hardly noteworthy. 

The rig isn’t visible, although Ariadne can guess it had taken at least three hard-points to get the tie done. Annie’s getting better every time they try, and Ariadne learns right along with her. She recognizes the pattern of knots that circle Arthur’s bare hips, a familiar suspension cradle that Annie’s used on her as well. One leg trails straight behind him, while the other is bent at the knee and pointing toward the floor, with Arthur’s calf lashed to his thigh. Even his toes are tied, bringing his foot  _ en pointe _ . It gives a sense of movement, that Arthur is dashing toward something. That something can only be Eames.

Eames stands level with Arthur’s face, bare to his waist. His tattoos look good in black and white, standing out against the stark white background. His hands cup Arthur’s face, curling over his jaw to pull him into a kiss. Both of their eyes are closed behind their domino masks. Ariadne can’t help but appreciate the glue-job. No gaps, probably Arthur’s work. She smiles.

Another pattern of rope wraps around Arthur’s ribs, a second suspension point that’s probably bearing most of Arthur’s weight. Arthur’s body is beautiful, all lithe muscle that gleams in the heavy contrast of Saito’s lights. Arthur looks strong and secure, accepting the challenge of what must be a difficult tie with grace. His arms arch straight back toward his hips, raised at a slight angle above his ribcage. They’re entirely bound in rope, with each wrapped line trailing up toward the ceiling to disappear from the frame. Ariadne counts at least a dozen lines on each arm, and small knots around each of Arthur’s fingers that fan off and join the other tail-lines.

Eames has given him wings.

Ariadne smiles and heads back to the party, following the soft sound of laughter and easy conversation. She joins them at the table and hands Annie her phone, and soon Eames is planning a head-harness with little cat ears. 

“This will be smashing,” he mutters, his eyebrows creased together as he sketches Annie’s face. He turns to Arthur, smiling brilliantly at him before turning back to his work. “Will you get me another slice of cake, Arthur darling?”

Arthur leans in, his voice so soft that Ariadne barely hears it.

“Yes, Mr. Eames.”

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the gorgeous tumblr aesthetics ExaggeratedSpecificity has blessed me with can be found [here!](https://saltandbyrne.tumblr.com/tagged/mr.-eames-and-the-boy-wonder)!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! saltandbyrne.tumblr.com/


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